


No Sway Over the Damned

by Nighthaunting



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Darion Mograine Appreciation, Darion Mograine Can't Catch a Break, Dark Magic, Death Knights - Freeform, Edging, F/M, Feelings, Femdom, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Necropolis Culture is a Thing, Oral Sex, Paladins, Porn With Plot, Resolving Emotional Tension, Spoilers for Death Knight Order Hall Campaign, Temporary Character Death, The Ebon Blade Loves Their Highlord, Threesome - M/M/M, Undead Sex, Visions, World of Warcraft: Legion Spoilers, gnomes: the other other other white meat, i love worldbuilding, mentions of cannibalism I guess?, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 44,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8308189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nighthaunting/pseuds/Nighthaunting
Summary: Darion Mograine's past and future collide as the campaign against the Legion progresses, prompting sex, feelings, and poor decision making as the Knights of the Ebon Blade struggle to protect their Highlord from his own destiny. 
(aka: everyone bangs darion while i completely rewrite the DK class questchain to be coherent and emotionally fulfilling as a narrative)





	1. Lord Thorval

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the quote: "Death is for the living, it has no sway over the damned."
> 
> Things to bear in mind:  
> \- Canonically Darion Mograine died and was raised into undeath when he was somewhere around 19 years old (Blizzard's timelines being what they are.) But as of Legion his actual age is around 30. 
> 
> \- I'm treating the position of 'Deathlord' as something of a Champion-type role. As Darion says himself, the Deathlord is granted authority equal to the Highlord's own, so it doesn't seem like much of a stretch. 
> 
> \- As happens, this grew a plot that quickly overwhelmed the original prompt of: "The Ebon Blade shows their Highlord how much they appreciate him with a nice gangbang."

The Ebon Blade prepares for war against the Legion much as it has prepared for war against everything else. 

News has already spread that the Highlord has appointed a Deathlord to serve as commander and liaison both on the Broken Isles, as well as the unnerving nature of their errand to Northrend and the Lich King’s renewed contact with their order. That the Deathlord is the one to bear the Lich King’s  _ favor _ \--one well-known Death Knight rather than the master of their order--is barely enough to stifle the suspicion that the Lich King seeks once again to bring the Knights of Acherus to heel. 

Frostmourne reforged into the Blades of the Fallen Prince seems as dire an omen as can be given in the advent of the Legion’s invasion. Highlord Mograine’s subsequent orders to recall every Death Knight that swears allegiance to the Ebon Hold, and to suspend all contracts and treaties lending the Ebon Blade’s strength to various factions and battlefields that would divert their attention from the greatest threat only echo this. 

Acherus has hung ominously over the Broken Shore for less than a week when further news of the Lich King’s plans to revive the Four Horsemen becomes common knowledge. The Deathlord arriving with General Nazgrim risen again stirs the gossip and speculation running through the Ebon Hold to new heights.

Much later, when the Hold has settled into its night shift and every idle Knight has been assigned some form of duty, Darion Mograine leaves the great command table to Siouxsie the Banshee’s attention and makes for his quarters. The Legion’s return and the catastrophic battle at the Broken Shore have been a weight upon his shoulders even before relocating Acherus to the Legion’s doorstep, and remain so now that the Ebon Blade directs all of its strength towards stopping the Legion’s invasion 

Lord Thorval greets Darion as he passes by the wing of the Ebon Hold claimed by the master of blood magicks and his acolytes for their study and research, “Highlord, a moment if you will.”

“Thorval,” Darion says, following the man into the darker and narrower corridors that wind through the blood wing and removing his helm when they enter Thorval’s private laboratory, “what is it that requires my attention.” 

“Nothing terribly important,” Lord Thorval replies as he bars the heavy door to the laboratory behind them, and takes Darion’s helm from him to set it on the crowded desk wedged into the corner of the room, “I’m just making sure you’re well, Highlord.” 

Darion sighs, “I assure you that I am perfectly fine,” but Lord Thorval has already turned to the winches and levers that control the height and angle of the heavy surgical slab that dominates the room, and begun to adjust it down to a proper height for an examination. 

When Thorval genially motions for Darion to sit on the impromptu examination table, Darion goes with enough grace to express his thanks for the other man’s concern--unbuckling his sword belt and unclasping his cloak and laying them over the desk with his helm--but still gives the master of blood a baleful look while he settles onto the table. Thorval smiles, “You look like a puppy with that face,” which makes Darion frown harder. 

Darion is aware of how youthful he appears. Dying before he could grow into his height has left him lanky and spare, and his features are caught in the same transition from adolescent to adult. His eyes deep-set; his jaw sharp and indelicate; his nose overlarge and hawkish. He wears stubble because going clean-shaven makes it worse, but not a full beard because it is both patchy--and always will be--and makes him look too much like his father for comfort. 

It has long been something of a sore point in relations between Acherus and the rest of Azeroth, and the reason he wears his helm religiously when dealing with anyone outside the Ebon Blade. Thorval’s reminder, no matter how good-natured--and likely true, because self-delusion is something Darion has always considered a waste of time--sharpens the edge of Darion’s annoyance. 

There must be something of it in his face, because Thorval stifles his smile and says, “My apologies, Highlord, I only speak freely because of our privacy.” 

“It is fine, Thorval,” Darion says, setting aside his issues, “You know I appreciate candor.” 

Thorval nods, and Darion can feel him beginning to channel the blood magicks that restore Death Knights’ strength and vitality. When Thorval’s hands glow with power and he presses his thumbs firmly to Darion’s temples Darion lets out a slow breath. Blood magic is as close as a Death Knight can come to being alive again, and Thorval is the Ebon Blade’s greatest master of it; his hands are warm where his palms settle on either side of Darion’s face, and the warmth spreads as he continues to focus the magic and runs his hands down to Darion’s neck to massage firmly at the base of his skull. 

Slowly, Darion feels the tension headache he’s ignored for the past few days begin to ease, and he shuts his eyes to enjoy the reprieve. Thorval easing his hands out of the fine strands of hair that have escaped the messy bun Darion keeps it in to run a careful thumb along Darion’s jaw before kissing him. Darion opens his eyes as Thorval draws back, obviously giving Darion space to decide whether or not he wants to continue. 

“Let me take care of you for a while,” Thorval says, offering.

Darion pauses for a moment, considering Thorval’s unstinting loyalty and considerable discrecion; weighing it against how long it’s been since anyone touched him at all. 

“Alright,” Darion breathes, and lets Thorval kiss him again before they help each other out of their armour. 

Thorval smooths his hands over Darion’s bare shoulders and leaves a stinging trail of heat in their wake, and steps forward to press Darion back onto the surgical slab. Climbing onto the slab himself, Thorval lies alongside Darion to press the lines of their bodies together, making Darion shudder and sigh at the warmth of Thorval’s skin. Darion reaches for him, threading his hands through Thorval’s dark hair and kissing him sweetly; drinking the rush of blood magic humming under Thorval’s skin.

When Thorval rolls Darion onto his back, Darion goes; stretching and arching against the slab as Thorval’s weight settles above him. When Thorval slicks his fingers with something Darion can’t see and slides the first of them inside him, Darion cants his hips to help the angle; letting out quiet breathes and soft noises of pleasure at the stretch. When Thorval shifts forward and replaces his fingers with his slicked cock, Darion groans; the feel of Thorval inside him hot and sharp and perfect. 

The aftermath of pleasure is hazy and indistinct, Darion curling against Thorval’s side and resting his head on his shoulder. Thorval strokes a firm hand along Darion’s spine, easing tension and working a subtle mending of the dense threads of necromantic magic that follow Darion’s vertebra. Allowing himself to be held, Darion slips into a mild meditation and enjoys the warmth Thorval exudes. 

Death Knights have little need for sleep. Neither of them drift into unconsciousness; but they lie together for a while, until Darion senses the the dawn nearing and extricates himself from Thorval’s arms. Accepting Thorval’s offer of basin and pitcher of water and assistance donning his armour gratefully. They don’t speak of the night before, but Thorval clasps Darion’s hands in his own before Darion leaves and says, “I won’t recommend a rest, Highlord, because I know you won’t take one, but have some care for yourself, hm?”

“Thank you, Lord Thorval,” Darion says, sincerely, “I will bear that in mind.”

Thorval nods, “That is all I ask, Highlord.” 

When he goes about his duties, Darion feels the phantom echoes of warmth on his skin for a while, and savors it until it fades.


	2. Amal'thazad

Amal'thazad has always found himself and Highlord Mograine to have a cordial and professional relationship. The Lich observes with unerring clarity, however, and can see that the Highlord is working more intensely than he had even during their battles against the Scourge. 

It is logical fact, that if the Highlord is allowed to exhaust himself with minutiae, he will not be well-prepared when the Ebon Blade inevitably enters open combat with the Legion. The appointment of the Deathlord is one Amal’thazad approved of--insofar as he feels deep approval of anything--both for the value of delegating tasks as well as the acknowledgement of one of his own disciples. But the strategic value of the Deathlord’s position as vanguard and champion of the Ebon Blade’s efforts in the Broken Isles will be undermined if the Highlord’s burden of duties is not actually lessened. 

For a time, Amal’thazad had been content to merely observe in the belief that once the major efforts of recalling and marshaling the Knights of the Ebon Blade to Acherus were through this would be true. Now, watching Highlord Mograine brace his hands on the command table and lean forward to study the maps spread upon it, Amal’thazad feels the slightest inkling of frustration. 

It is late into the night cycle of Acherus’ guard and duty rosters, and the Highlord has already taken his shift at the command table, but excused the Knight that came to relieve him of his duties to continue poring over the maps of the Broken Isles. Amal’thazad is aware that the Highlord’s dedication is somehow considered to be inspirational; he himself is not so flensed of his emotions that Darion Mograine’s methodical attention to detail isn’t heartening. But he is flensed of just enough emotion to have the somewhat fatalistic belief that working oneself into exhaustion--no matter how inexhaustible a Death Knight’s stamina can be--when there’s no tangible gains yet to be had is a touch foolish. 

Amal’thazad would never call the Highlord foolish, much less to his face, so instead he glides over to stand before the Highlord at the command table, and waits for the Highlord to give him his attention. 

It happens swiftly, the Highlord turning to face him and nodding in greeting, “Amal’thazad.” 

“Highlord,” Amal’thazad says, “Allow me to mind the command table for a while.”

The Highlord considers this request for a moment--looking down at the maps again and subtly stretching his back as the hours he’d spent hunched over made themselves apparent--before nodding once, “My thanks, Amal’thazad, Lady Alistra will relieve you at the morning shift.” 

The Lich glides closer to the command table, bowing obviously, “Highlord.”

Highlord Mograine gives one last glance at the maps before leaving--Amal’thazad vaguely hopes--for his own quarters. The Lich stifles the vague threat of annoyance he feels; there are so few hours left until the morning shift change that he isn’t terribly inconvenienced, although he resolves to make some rather pointed remarks to the Deathlord about the purpose of her office when he next sees his pupil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Amal'thazad he's such a nerd. Definite meditations on what the Deathlord is actually for, ahoy.


	3. Lady Alistra is the Biggest Bro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this grew a plot and then it grew a _plot_

Amal’thazad does not merely content himself with making pointed remarks to the Deathlord. 

When Lady Alistra arrives trailed by an attendant ghoul, the Lich decides that recruiting the unparalleled connections to all levels of the Ebon Blade that the Lady maintains--and exploits, ruthlessly--can only help the logical and practical conservation of the Highlord’s strength. It is still early enough that only those Knights assuming and being relieved of guard duty wander the halls, and none of them pass through the chamber where the command table is located; leaving the Lich able to speak freely. 

Lady Alistra seems surprised only that Amal’thazad initiates conversation; arching one perfectly-shaped brow and politely returning his greeting before Amal’thazad outlined his concerns. 

It didn’t escape Lady Alistra that Amal’thazad was speaking more to her position at the center of the nebulous web of gossip that spread through Acherus like a cobweb than her position as master of unholy magicks and sometime-advisor to the Highlord. The Lich’s uncharacteristic agitation was interesting enough to witness--although agitation was too strong a word to use by far--but Amal’thazad had always been valued by the Ebon Blade for the unique perspective afforded to Liches, and Alistra could agree that Darion seemed almost too eager to exhaust himself with his duties. 

Something would have to be done, and as she served out her shift at the command table she considered just how and what that was. It seemed clear enough that at least a portion of Darion’s more-than-usual grief was due to Tirion Fordring’s death. The paladin’s fall at the Broken Shore was some of the most devastating news to come from the battle’s aftermath. Alistra had heard, a few days later, of a letter arriving for Darion bearing the seal of the Order of the Silver Hand; Darion’s truly dark mood and efforts to lose himself in work settling in corresponding more to the letter’s arrival than to the news of Fordring’s death, which made Alistra curious. 

As she had time, between Knights returning to her with their completed missions and Knights arriving for new assignments, Alistra summoned several of her attendant ghouls to carry messages around Acherus for her. Replies were swift, as usual, and before her shift ended Alistra had sent further missives to a few select individuals while studying the information that had been reported to her. 

The Deathlord was due to relieve Alistra of her duties at the command table--and was coincidentally the person Alistra had sent the most urgent missive to--arriving comfortably before her shift as Alistra shooed a few lingering Knights away from the central chamber so they could speak privately. For greater privacy, Alistra addressed the fellow Blood Elven woman in Thalassian; first chatting at length about the events of Alistra’s watch and the Deathlord’s latest excursions in the Broken Isles, before the Deathlord stepped closer and lowered her voice to ask after Alistra’s message. 

Telling the Deathlord about Amal’thazad’s pique caused her to huff out a quiet laugh, but bringing her attention to the Highlord’s unusual state was enough to give the Deathlord pause as she too reflected on when exactly his mood had turned. 

“Well,” the Deathlord said, ice crystallizing in her breath as she shifted her heavy boots to break the ice that had begun to form under her feet, “He’s always been a bit...mopey? You know?”

“Not like this,” Alistra countered, “I’ve done some subtle investigation and it happened after he got a letter from the Silver Hand.” 

The Deathlord carefully didn’t react to the mention of the order of paladins, and Alistra knew her instinct to question the Deathlord had been correct. 

“You’ve heard something?” Alistra asked, reaching out to curl her heavily gauntleted hand over the Deathlord’s own in a gesture belonging more to her past life than her undeath. 

“I might…,” The Deathlord began, pulling her hand away and gesturing to ward off Alistra’s interruption, “Have met a certain paladin of some rank who was deep enough in his cups to take offense to a Death Knight being in the same tavern…”

Alistra hissed at her to get to the point. 

“Well this paladin might have told me that word around Light’s Hope is that some senior paladins got together and agreed that the Highlord was absolutely not going to be welcome at Tirion Fordring’s funeral proceedings.” The Deathlord finished, darkly.

For a long moment, silence hung between the two women, before Alistra delicately inquired, “And how did this paladin end up disclosing what is obviously sensitive information from high command of the Silver Hand to you?”

The Deathlord smiled nastily, scarred and cold-blackened lips twisting, “I may have taken his offence somewhat personally and beat him until he started talking.”

Alistra curled her lips to keep from laughing, sobering as soon as she began to consider the implication of the Silver Hand’s renewed dislike of the Ebon Blade. 

“We knew Tirion Fordring was the only thing that made the Ashen Verdict work,” the Deathlord says quietly, reading the expression on Alistra’s face, “was the only thing keeping the Argent Crusade or Silver Hand or whatever they’re calling themselves now friendly to us instead of…” 

Alistra knows what the Deathlord means well enough, and they let their conversation end with that. The Deathlord turning her attention to the command table and the Knights who approach as soon as Alistra steps away. 

The second most urgent missive sent was to Lord Thorval, who offered a meeting at whatever time was convenient to Lady Alistra. The master of blood magicks is also the master of the Ebon Hold’s necrosurgeons, and so he takes his duty shifts in the various laboratories where his attention is needed rather than at the command table. Now, Alistra finds him surrounded by a small group of blood acolytes, leaning over the open chest cavity of a cadaver she vaguely recognizes as a Knight who’d reported to her a few times in the past. 

Thorval nods to her when she enters the lab, and she waits for him to finish his lecture; dismissing the acolytes and beginning to stitch the cadaver’s chest closed. Alistra nudges the laboratory’s door shut, and moves to the opposite side of the surgical slab from Thorval. 

“Lady Alistra, this is a rare pleasure,” Thorval says, not bothering to look up from his stitching.

“Lord Thorval,” Alistra replies cooly, “I have some rather delicate business to discuss.”

“I gathered as much from your note,” Thorval says, grunting with effort as he moves the ribcage back into place. 

“The Silver Hand sent a letter several weeks ago informing the Highlord he was no longer welcome at Light’s Hope, not even for Tirion Fordring’s funeral,” Alistra says, laying out her best interpretation of the crux of their problems. 

Thorval pauses, setting aside his forceps and straightening to look at Alistra’s face, “The Highlord has been rather more troubled than usual...I had thought I’d…” he stops, “This casts an entirely new light on things.”

Alistra notices Thorval’s pause, but allows it to pass for now--she can always find out what exactly Thorval thought he’d done for the Highlord later--to focus on her reason for seeing out her fellow instructor. 

“I spoke with Amal’thazad this morning, and he complained bitterly about the Highlord’s overworking himself,” Alistra says, “Having conferred with a few others, and consulted the Deathlord, it’s clear that his complaints are entirely accurate. We need to do something.”

Thorval snorts at her blunt statement, “The Highlord values his privacy, do you think he’ll appreciate you and whoever else you’ve involved in this simply approaching him to talk?” 

Alistra drums her fingers against the edge of the surgical table, “The Highlord doesn’t have to be involved in planning,” she says, “as long as he receives the benefits.”

Thorval opens his mouth to say something else, but catches the look on Alistra’s face and reconsiders. Seeing the Lady out of the laboratory and returning to his work, Thorval considers his own efforts. Darion had seemed lighter for a while, but Thorval is aware enough of the particular strengths and weaknesses of their order to know that Alistra means to try the same thing he had, and he is aware enough again to know that intimacy alone won’t solve their problems. 

Darion needs more care than their dark order of undead killers can give him, and more care than he himself can accept as master of that self-same order. 

But Thorval supposes they will have to make do with what they can manage, and carefully cuts the thread on the his final stitch. Setting aside his forceps again, Thorval feels the cadaver’s ribcage again to be sure it’s correctly settled before channelling power into the corpse and dragging his fellow Death Knight back into undeath. 

As the Knight struggles back to awareness, Thorval stands back from the surgical slab to observe, and hands them a shapeless black shift when they’re settled enough to sit up. 

“I have a task for you,” Thorval says, finding a scrap of parchment among his reference notes and tsking as he resorts to dipping the tip of his pen into a beaker of blood he’d set aside on the alchemical bench when he can’t find his inkpot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the stuff about the paladins isn't canon at all, but it just seemed strange to me that tirion and darion could be on such good terms, and then as soon as tirion dies the paladins around light's hope are warning my deathlord to watch her step and barely tolerating the presence of death knights. getting disinvited from the place he literally died to sanctify and where his father and tirion are both buried seems like the sort of terrible thing that would happen to darion. 
> 
> and bonus cameo of my deathlord, ofc


	4. Lady Alistra Gets Some

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alistra fucking gets some like the boss she is

Darion clenches his hands around the bars on Alistra’s headboard and breathes out steadily through his nose. His concentration divided between maintaining the tendrils of shadow that bind his wrists together over his head and the feel of Alistra’s weight on top of him. 

Alistra drags her nails lightly along the edge of the death wound cutting a ragged line along Darion’s abdomen until he has to clench his eyes shut to maintain his focus. She shifts, clenching her thighs on either side of Darion’s hips and pushing herself up to her knees before lowering herself back down to feel the slide and drag of Darion’s cock inside her. 

The bed Alistra keeps in her chambers is narrow--space is at a premium within Acherus, and even the most highly ranked commanders’ private rooms are small--with a wrought iron frame, tucked into an alcove it barely fits into. It suits Alistra well enough; none of them require very much sleep, she simply enjoys having a comfortable place to lie down when she wants to. 

Plush pillows and sheets in black silk make Darion stand out strikingly, spread out beneath her as he is; unearthly pale, each freckle part of a tiny chain of constellations, the red of his hair almost bloody. Alistra has kept him strung out for hours, cooing and coaxing Darion to maintain his hold on the shadowy bindings while riding him with agonizing slowness. As she rolls her hips down and grinds herself against the solid jut of his pubic bone, Alistra admires the tense flex of muscle in Darion’s arms and shoulders as he struggles to hold still. 

For a moment, Alistra rides weightless as Darion writhes; hips lifting her weight as his back arches, rolling up and then collapsing onto the bed again. The breathy noises it draws from her are echoed by Darion groaning softly and looking up at her through his eyelashes. Alistra preens for a moment, knowing exactly the image she presents, before bracing her hands on Darion’s chest and lifting herself again to let the slick drag of Darion’s cock inside her bring her to another orgasm. 

She lets herself sprawl forward across Darion’s chest, breasts pressing against the hard lines of his muscle, and marks sweet kisses along his jaw and at the corners of his mouth; uncaring of the deep burgundy stains her lipstick leaves behind. Alistra shifts slightly, savoring the feeling of Darion tense and shaking beneath her--so much power restrained at her command is always,  _ always _ intoxicating--and whispering encouragement she’s not entirely sure he can hear. 

Alistra is sure he hears her when she straightens again, bracing herself, and purrs out, “Alright, alright; now.” 

Darion sobs out a breath and finally lets the tenuous thread of the shadow bind tear itself from his grasp; he writhes hard, clutching at the bars of the headboard, and Alistra clenches her thighs and rolls her hips and rides the breaking wave of Darion’s release until he goes still and exhausted beneath her. Alistra slips from her place astride him gracefully, prying Darion’s hands away from the headboard and shifting them both so he lay with his head on her chest. 

Carding her fingers through his loose hair, Alistra lets Darion cling to her and drift comfortably in oblivion for a while.


	5. Dread Commander Thalanor

The Runewood is ominously still; gentle breezes shifting through the branches of the giant trees enough to rustle the leaves, but not enough to dispel the sense of great age. Darion’s heavy boots crunch over fallen leaves and scrape on the winding, uneven paths that lead through the trees. 

The squad of Ebon Knights that follow him are peering around curiously, their chatter having died off as they’d entered the Runewood. They hold their weapons at the ready, and maintain discipline well enough that Darion is mildly pleased to have them assigned to him. 

They aren’t on a mission of any great importance, but the requests the Deathlord receives from the various factions around the Broken Isles--whose cooperation eases the Ebon Blade’s workings in the Broken Isles to a noticeable extent--serve well enough to dull the pangs of the bloodlust that all Death Knights suffer. Darion feels his own bloodlust itching under his skin, not painful yet, but making itself known. 

Through the trees, they sight the quarry they’ve been sent to target; runeworkers carving the stone and performing rituals that the Deathlord hadn’t bothered to explain. One of the priests turns and notices them as they step into the clearing around the quarry, and shouts a warning to his brethren. Darion unsheathes his sword and summons shadow magic to his free hand, reaching out with a tendril of dark power to grasp the shouting priest and drag him bodily across the clearing; driving the point of his greatsword through the priest’s heart as soon as he’s within range and then withdrawing the blade in one smooth motion and allowing the priest’s corpse to fall to the ground. 

The squad of Knights rushes past into the quarry to begin their slaughter of the other priests, smashing the half-formed runes carved on the stone as the Deathlord had instructed. Darion considers the corpse at his feet before focusing the power necessary to raise the priest’s body as a ghoul. The creature groans and shivers before shambling obediently to Darion’s side and following him as he catches another priest trying to run from the carnage playing out across the quarry. The priest screams as he catches sight of his risen fellow, and the pure terror in the sound makes the bloodlust in Darion’s chest purr with satisfaction. 

Darion lunges at the running priest, slicing a deep rend in the priest’s calf and making him stumble and collapse to the ground. The wound is already starting to ooze, the veins around it turning black and standing out starkly against the priest’s skin as the unholy magic infusing Darion’s strike turns to plague in the priest’s body. The priest tries to crawl away, but Darion gestures at the ghoul slavering at his side and the knowledge of what he requires the creature to do manifests itself at the forefront of the ghoul’s limited thoughts; his minion throwing itself forward in its eagerness to please its master, and stopping the priest from getting any further with all its dead weight. Idly, Darion drags the point of his runeblade down the priest’s arm, opening another gash in his skin; the welling blood already beginning to rot and congeal.

The priest seizes; fever beginning to set in, screams tearing their way through his throat as the plague ravages his body. Darion feels the thrum of the unholy magicks that generates the plague in the priest’s body, and drives his greatsword into one of the priest’s flailing limbs, pressing the blade through the priest’s flesh and into the ground beneath; leaving the sword standing there, both his hands wrapped around the hilt, and reaching out through the focuses of the unholy runes worked into the greatsword’s blade. The runes amplify Darion’s awareness of the priest’s suffering, and he draws the power of it through his blade; feeding on it, drinking the pain and anguish of the priest’s death. Darion hums quietly, letting out a needless breath as the tight coil of bloodlust that winds itself around his heart eases completely; the unending hunger sated, for now. He pulls his runeblade from the priest’s rotting corpse, and turns away as the ghoul begins to devour its former comrade.

Sheathing his blade, Darion waits for his squad of Death Knights to return; trailing back to him one by one, their armour spattered with blood. When they’re assembled, Darion opens a Death Gate and sees them through the portal before calling the ghoul to his side and stepping through himself. 

Their return to Acherus is unremarkable, the Knights leaving to report the success of their hunt to the Deathlord at the command table as soon as they’ve regained their feet from crossing the portal. Darion pauses on the balcony reserved for Archerus’ flightmaster and transport, and observes the Knights coming and going in relative anonymity. It is a habit of his to not wear the ornate armour warranted by his status as Highlord when merely leaving Acherus for simple missions, and Darion values the fact that he is rarely recognized as himself when he does so. The plain saronite warplate he wears now is the same he wears when training; scuffed and dented and unremarkable, with the Ebon Blade’s tabard covering scratches he hasn’t bothered sending the plate to the armourers to repair yet. Under the Acherus’ Knight’s hood, Darion passes easily for an ordinary Death Knight when away from the Ebon Hold. 

Darion steps to the side, where Dread Commander Thalanor has been subtly signalling for the Highlord’s attention, and greets his fellow Knight, “Dread Commander.”

“Highlord,” Thalanor says, giving a nod in deference, “If we may speak?”

“Of course,” Darion says, dismissing his ghoul and leading the Dread Commander to his rooms. 

As Highlord of Acherus, Darion is afforded both an office and an arming chamber of his own; they are still small, for even his authority cannot manufacture extra space where there is none to be had, but they suit his needs. Unlocking the door to his office, Darion allows Thalanor to enter before shutting the door behind him again. His desk is as he left it--a heavy oak table with gnarled legs that Darion repurposed rather than an actual desk--and he shuffles past the shelves that cover most of the walls to step through the narrow doorway leading to his arming chamber; a tiny cell of a room into which Darion has managed to fit both of his armour stands, a wide padded bench he sometimes sleeps on, and two stacked trunks on which the stand for his runeblade rests that represent the sum of his worldly belongings. Unclasping his cloak and laying it across the bench, Darion unbuckles the sheathe of his runeblade from his swordbelt and sets it carefully on its stand before turning back through the narrow door to his office where Thalanor is waiting. 

“Your mission went well, I trust?” Thalanor asks, as Darion rounds his desk to face him again. 

“It did,” Darion agrees, rolling his shoulders reflexively at the thought of bloodlust sated and enjoying being free of the tight and relentless pain that bloomed in his chest when he went too long without, “Your squad functioned well, Thalanor.” 

The complement made Thalanor draw himself up slightly, taking deserved pride in his work directing the training of their recruited Knights, before he says, “That’s not what I wished to speak to you about, Highlord.”

Darion leaned his hip against the edge of the table, somewhat surprised, “Yes?”

“There is troubling word around Acherus, Highlord,” Thalanor says, and Darion feels a thread of anxiety unspool itself down his spine, “Not,” Thalanor hastens to add, “among the Knights, but some sensitive news has been revealed among your commanders thanks to the collusion of the Deathlord and Lady Alistra.”

“I can imagine what that news is,” Darion grates out, purposefully removing his hands from the table and straightening so he won’t damage it when he gives in to the urge to curl them into fists. 

“I don’t mean to upset you by bringing it up, Highlord,” Thalanor says calmly, “but only to inform you, and to remind you perhaps--” 

“Remind me?” Darion interrupts, half incredulously, “What is it about this do you think I wish to be reminded of?”

“Remind you that the Ebon Blade stands behind you, and that your commanders are hastening to prepare their support,” Thalanor finishes, reaching out to steady Darion as he sags back against the desk. 

“Thalanor...,” Darion says, as Thalanor squeezes Darion’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. 

“Highlord,” Thalanor says, releasing Darion’s shoulder and kneeling before him, “our loyalty is to you, whatever may come.”

“I know this,” Darion says quietly, “Please, Thalanor, there’s no need for…”

“If you will, Highlord,” Thalanor replies, looking up at Darion through his eyelashes, “but I would demonstrate, if allowed.”

“You demonstrate your loyalty daily with your care for your duties,” Darion frowns, failing to grasp Thalanor’s meaning, “I don’t see how you could--”

Thalanor reaches out and smooths his hands up Darion’s thighs to his waist, hooking his fingers around Darion’s belt buckle, “Darion.”

“Oh,” Darion says, understanding.

The look Thalanor gives him speaks both of fondness and freely-offered desire, and when Darion nods cautiously Thalanor smirks and unbuckles Darion’s belt, taking the drape of Darion’s tabard and tucking it to the side. The saronite plate covering most of Darion’s thighs makes touching them useless, but his hips and the v of his legs are covered only by the heavy leathers Darion wears under his armour. Thalanor works his fingers around the curve of Darion’s hips, massaging until Darion is shifting against his hands before pressing a palm over Darion’s hardening cock through his leathers. Darion makes a noise that’s something between a sigh and a moan, and Thalanor grins and slices through the laces of Darion’s leathers with a single sharp talon of one of his gauntlets. 

Thalanor grasps Darion firmly by the thighs and shoves him back so he’s half-sitting on the table, letting one of Darion’s thighs go so Darion could brace himself against the floor with the ball of his foot and lifting the other to put over a shoulder; spreading Darion’s legs and giving Thalanor more leverage to draw Darion’s cock from his leathers and hold his hips still when Darion tries to squirm at the touch. 

Physical feeling is different for Death Knights than it was in their mortal lives, but Thalanor finds Darion still more than sensitive enough to tease until he has to press Darion back onto the table to keep him still. Laving his tongue along the underside of Darion’s cock, Thalanor listens to the sweet breathiness of his moans and knows that he isn’t far from his release. Thalanor swallows Darion’s cock and hums, hollowing his cheeks and dragging Darion’s hips forward to take him all the way; feeling Darion’s thighs tense and flex and hearing Darion’s claw-tipped gauntlets gouging the surface of the table. 

When Thalanor coaxes Darion’s climax from him it comes with a sigh; the tension draining suddenly from the Highlord’s frame. Thalanor keeps a gentle grip on Darion’s hips as he fixes his clothes, stopping Darion from sliding bonelessly off the table, before unhooking Darion’s thigh from over his shoulder and standing. 

Darion lies half-blissed, sprawled back over the papers and open ledgers that were arranged for his work. Helpfully, Thalanor lifts both of Darion’s legs and shifts him so he can settle Darion’s heavy boots on the table as well.

“Thank you...for that,” Darion says, drawing in a breath to speak and then slurring out the words. He gives no indication of what, exactly, he’s thanking Thalanor for, but Thalanor can guess. 

“You’re welcome, Highlord,” Thalanor replies, watching as Darion laces his fingers together over his stomach and then lies perfectly still, as though waiting for his own wake to start, “Shall I see myself out?”

“Yes,” Darion agrees, “and tell the Deathlord I wish to speak with her later.”

“Of course,” Thalanor says, before opening the door and leaving Darion to the silence of his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy halloween! 
> 
> darion IS actually the cutest idk if ive made this clear enough yet


	6. Salanar and His Darned 'Riding' Metaphors

"Highlord," the Deathlord said, stepping through the door to Darion's office to find him flipping through a heavy grimoire, "Thalanor gave me your message."

"Deathlord," Darion greeted her in return, "The time has come for the next phase of your project."

"Oh? I was under the impression you disapproved of the Horsemen's return," the Deathlord said candidly.

"That remains true," Darion replied, "but the power of the Horsemen cannot be denied, and if it must be done I would see it done properly," the Deathlord nodded at this as Darion continued, "the Horsemen will need perfect steeds, this is no simple task. For the next step of your project, I will go on a mission to the Realm of Shadows to find Salanar the Horseman and summon him to Acherus."

"Must you go personally, Highlord?" the Deathlord asked, surprised, "I can  easily organize a squad of Knights to go instead."

Darion snapped the grimoire shut and laid it on his desk, "Salanar will be in the depths of the Realm of Shadow, it is most expedient to go myself, and Salanar will be easier to deal with if he feels he is being offered the proper respects."

"If you're sure, Highlord."

"I am sure, expect my absence for no more than a week," Darion said, ushering the Deathlord from his office and following her into the hall before locking his office door behind them. His runeblade was already belted to his waist, and a black satchel the Deathlord hadn't noticed in the gloom of his office slung over a shoulder.

Darion left Acherus by way of the portal to Dalaran. The Realm of Shadow could easily be reached from the Broken Isles, but the landscape in the Realm echoed a darker version of the real world and it would be a waste of time to cross the sea to the Eastern Kingdoms when he could just as easily take a portal to Ironforge. Dressed again in the nondescript plate of an ordinary Death Knight, Darion passed unnoticed and unquestioned through the Silver Enclave before arriving in Ironforge and doing the same there. 

It was only on the main road leading out of Dun Morogh that Darion summoned his Deathcharger and crossed into the Realm of Shadow. He had enough of an idea where Salanar would be that he rode steadily north along the winding trails of shade that laid over where the roads would have been in the land of the living. In the distant darkness, he could see the wavering shapes of lost souls wandering the lands of their regret, but none approached him; knowing well enough the aura of dread that Death Knights exuded. The very nature of the Realm of Shadow made it easy for Darion to simply ride without stopping; the unending twilight never giving way to day or night, making Darion have pay mind to how many days he’d been riding. 

Slowly, Darion began to notice signs of Salanar’s passage. The Dark Rider had always preferred to frequent the Realm of Shadow, and after the Ebon Blade had broken free of the Lich King’s will he and his followers had returned there. The Realm of Shadow began to change in appearance, turning from a lifeless mirror of the world on the other side to a unique--though permanently darkened--land. When a point of light appeared in the distance, Darion tugged the Deathcharger’s’ reins to slow them to a walk, and turned towards it. 

Salanar’s camp was small: a lichflame ‘campfire’ that Darion could recall the horseman admitting he only lit as a habit from life; Salanar’s steed, Fury, unsaddled and tethered to a grazing lead; and Salanar himself, lying on top of his saddle pads on the ground, head pillowed on the supple leather of his saddle. 

“Highlord,” Salanar said, baring teeth filed to points when he smiled.

“Salanar,” Darion said, dismounting his Deathcharger and stepping into the circle of dim light cast by the lichfire. 

Salanar sat up as though he was pulled by strings, body jolting upright as he swung out an arm to grab his helmet off the saddle pads spread over the ground and move it aside, leaving a space he patted invitingly, “Come, sit, I’ve been expecting you.” 

Darion removed his own helm, frowning, but made no move to sit down, “If you’re been expecting me you know why I’m here; come to Acherus and begin your work.”

Salanar nodded, flicking the dark braid of his hair back over his shoulder as he leaned forward to pat the space on the saddle pad more insistently, “There’s no rush, Highlord, you haven’t even finished gathering the Four yet. Sit down.”

“That is no reason not to be ready,” Darion says, settling on the edge of the saddle pad. 

The horse master’s heavily scarred face twisted when he grinned, “A bit of time spent catching up with old friends won’t do any harm,” Salanar says, nodding towards Darion’s Deathcharger “You’ve grown in power, that poor steed I created for you is hardly suiting anymore.”

“There’s nothing wrong with--” Darion started before Salanar cut him off.

“I know my work better than anyone, Darion, and I can easily make a much more fit mount for you, given the time.”

“I didn’t come to find you because I require your art for myself, the Horsemen must have their mounts, that should be your sole occupation until the Four are gathered,” Darion says, annoyed.

Salanar scoffs, “I created the steeds for the original Four, and know what’s needed now better than I did then, it would be an amusing diversion to fill my time while waiting for the necessary tools to be gathered, nothing more.”

“Then come to Acherus with me so the quartermasters can be informed of what you require,” Darion insists. 

“Are you so anxious to see the Four return, Darion?” Salanar asks, quirking a dark brow.

Darion shifts uncomfortably, scowling at the blue flames summoned to provide the ‘campfire’, “You know how I feel about the Four, Salanar, but we have set out on this course and I will not see it fail.”

“I hope,” Salanar says lowly, “for your sake, Darion, that you will come to some peace about this.”

“Your concern is touching,” Darion says icily, “but I say again, I am not here for myself.”

Salanar sighs, before cocking his head playfully, “You should still let me get the measure for a new steed, even if you wish me to delay the project.”

“Iydallus serves me perfectly well,” Darion says, exasperated. 

“A few adjustments won’t hurt,” Salanar says, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs in front of him, he grins, “If anything a better ride will help you.”

Darion is quiet for a long moment, taking in Salanar’s pose and pointed smile, “Are we still even talking about horses?”

“If you want to be talking about horses, then we’re talking about horses, but if you’re thinking of riding something else, I certainly wouldn’t mind providing a capable steed,” Salanar says suggestively, rolling his hips to make his offer blatantly clear. 

Finding Salanar and bringing him back to Acherus was Darion’s only goal, but after what he’d learned from Thalanor the prospect of returning to the Ebon Hold and beginning to try and unravel whatever scheming the Deathlord and Alistra had already gotten up to was daunting. Exhausting in a way Darion didn’t want to consider; the diligent loyalty of his own order, somehow turned towards coddling and shielding him from what his duty as Highlord demanded he face. 

Salanar’s eyes are a flat, disturbing green in the cold light cast by the lichfire, but the devilish gleam present in their depths has been undimmed for as long as Darion has known the Dark Rider. It is appealing, suddenly: Salanar has never cared for more than his purview as master of Acherus’ Dark Riders, and even after Acherus’ rebellion he remained concerned only with his own workings. 

Darion shifts closer to Salanar, leaning into his space, “How much better would this ride be?”

Salanar sits forward and threads a hand through Darion’s hair, snapping the tie keeping it back from his face and winding his fingers through the length of it as it tumbles down around Darion’s shoulders. Gently, Salanar turns Darion’s face towards him and kisses him, “Let me show you,” he breathes against Darion’s mouth. 

The soft moan Darion makes in response is enough to drive Salanar to pull Darion closer, hands searching out the catches and buckles of Darion’s armour as they kiss again. Breaking apart to shed a piece of armour or clothing and then returning to their kiss until they’re both nude; Salanar pulling Darion into his lap as he leans back, and stretches out again on the saddle pads. 

Darion follows Salanar’s mouth with his own, leaning forward from where he straddles Salanar’s hips to chase hungry kisses. Salanar reaches behind himself for the saddlebags resting near his helm, and retrieves a phial of oil; not bothering to measure it out, simply unstopping the cork and letting it run out over his hand before throwing the empty phial to the side. He slicks his oiled hand over his cock before slipping it between Darion’s legs and beginning to prepare him; letting Darion roll his hips down and ride Salanar’s fingers. 

Salanar has to span his hands around Darion’s hips to hold him still long enough to position his cock and then tug Darion onto it, groaning to echo the soft keen that escapes Darion at being filled. Returning the impatient nips Darion laves along his mouth and jaw when Darion braces his hands on Salanar’s shoulders and tries to lift his hips against the strength of Salanar’s hands, ending up squirming on Salanar’s cock instead. 

He has to lay back and brace his feet against the ground to gain the leverage to roll his hips up while holding Darion still, but Salanar bucks up, lifting Darion and making him moan. Darion’s hands falling to Salanar’s chest to steady himself before he levers himself onto his knees far enough that Salanar’s cock nearly slips out of him before allowing his weight to force him back down onto it.

The pace Salanar sets is erratic; bucking his hips and forcing Darion to balance and ride him, while Darion matches his thrusts or lifts himself away from Salanar and then presses down to try and take control. Salanar knows neither of them will last very long, but still reaches out and tugs Darion more firmly onto his cock on a thrust; watching the sleek line of Darion’s throat work when his head falls back,hands scrabbling across Salanar’s abdomen for purchase. The desperate noises Darion is making are like a spur being set into Salanar’s side, more devastating than the flex of Darion’s thighs around Salanar’s hips, and he manages one more hard thrust before wrapping his slicked hand around Darion’s cock and driving them both into orgasm. Darion collapsing across Salanar’s chest and staying there, letting Salanar pet his loose hair and croon praises. 

Eventually, they untangle themselves and dress in their armour. Darion waiting patiently for Salanar to saddle Fury, before they step back into the world of the living and summon a Death Gate. 

There are no more words said between Darion and Salanar when they arrive in Acherus, although Salanar’s parting nod is accompanied by a smug look, before he’s forced to turn to the Deathlord as she crosses the balcony to greet Salanar. The Horsemen are the Deathlord’s project, so Darion excuses himself and leaves them to their business.

“Deathlord,” Salanar says, as soon as Darion has swept away into the shadows of the necropolis “the Highlord explained the exact nature of your request, and I’m ready to begin at any time.”

“Excellent,” the Deathlord replies, “I’ll ensure you have everything you require, but are there any, ah, specifications you need?”

“No,” Salanar says, smirk playing around his mouth, “I’ve taken what measure I need already, these steeds will be greater than those of the original Horsemen, and the steed of the Fourth will be my masterpiece.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before anyone asks yes i am absolutely implying salanar knows the score re: the fourth horseman
> 
> also it occurred to me that i should explain: half the reason darion is not surprised about everyone wanting to bang him is because my DK headcanons are half serious 'how do their finances work?' type headcanons and half cracky 'darion was the acherus bicycle before they broke free of the lich king and collectively started feeling guilt again' type headcanons.


	7. Siouxsie the Banshee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy hecke my dudes welcome back to darion's sex odyssey sorry for the break but ehh you know how it is

After returning to Acherus with Salanar, Darion immerses himself once again in his work. Even with the Deathlord handling all matters related to the Ebon Blade’s engaging the Legion on the Broken Isles, the fact that Acherus is hosting its full complement of Death Knights for the first time since the Northrend campaign means Darion is incredibly busy. After several weeks of carefully balancing the daily needs of running the fortress with the attention required by assigning and maintaining a rotation at the command table, it was obvious that promoting a Knight to specifically run the command table would be necessary. 

It irked Darion slightly to not be able to personally attend to every detail as he had been over the past few months, but the demands on his time and energy--as far removed from the requirements for rest that burdened the living though he may be--meant logically he would eventually begin to make mistakes, which was far more unacceptable. 

The search for an appropriately senior Knight, however, did not move swiftly once Darion had reached his decision. Considerations beyond the mere ability to command power weighed on his choice: a senior Knight whom no one respected would be as effective as if he were simply neglecting the work himself, and would be just as undermining to the morale of Acherus. 

Salanar had been monopolizing the Deathlord’s time with quests to retrieve the items he needed to complete the Horsemen’s steeds, or Darion would have consulted with her to help winnow down the already-short list of Knights he knew were competent enough to fill the position. 

Recognizing his candidates did nothing to help with determining the best way to make a final decision, so Darion continued in his duties while finding himself distracted in his very few hours of spare time considering the best way to single out the ideal Knight for the task. 

Nearly alone in one of the few large rooms in Acherus devoted almost entirely to a single purpose, Darion spun the hilt of his runeblade expertly between his hands and struck a flurry of deadly blows on the ragged training dummy he’d focused his attentions on. The training ring was the smaller one in Acherus--not the great fighting pit that dominated the center of Acherus’ armoury and makeshift trade quarter--and so the walls were covered in shelving and the corners of the room given over to orderly stacks of crates in an effort to make as much use of the space as possible. Except for the shuffling of the drudge ghouls who would occasionally drag crates of supplies and armaments into or out of the room, the only noise was the sound of blade slicing neatly through canvas and straw. 

The rhythms of the sword forms Darion had been training with for as long as he could remember were not particularly soothing--when he allowed himself to relax too deeply into the movements, he always began to subtly adjust his grip for the Ashbringer’s unique weight and balance, and it was jarring when the sword in his hands failed to match that no matter how long it had been since the Ashbringer was his, when the blade had been so a part of him--but the ease and familiarity of the repetitive motion was always helpful for focusing his thoughts, and he turns them now to considering his candidates so fully that he only notices Siouxsie the Banshee stalking around the edge of the training ring as a cool point of shadow on the edge of his senses. 

Siouxsie can pass invisible and unnoticed through the shadows when she wants to, a hallmark of her former life as a Night Elven Sentinel, but for the sake of politeness she deigns allow her presence to be felt as she watches Highlord Mograine move through another set of strikes so precise she could practically see the places where some childhood instructor corrected the slant of Darion’s shoulders and the angle of his wrists and then bid him practice until it was second nature. The display was impressive, but there were a few places where the Highlord seemed to pause that Siouxsie found troubling. 

For Death Knights more than any other warriors, the soul of the blade was truly part of them; the runes on their runeblades binding blade and Knight together as one. Unlike a Warrior who mastered blades to the point they could fight ably with any weapon, or Paladins who called down the light to empower their blows, a Death Knight needed to be attuned to their runeblade; not merely connected spiritually, but also bound to a blade that could bear out the fullness of a Death Knight’s power. 

When the Deathlord had asked Siouxsie to keep a subtle eye on the Highlord while she went crawling through half the deep holes in the Broken Isles on behalf of Salanar, Siouxsie had agreed readily; already having been asked to do so by Lord Thorval and perfectly willing to collect two sets of favors for fulfilling the same purpose. It amused Siouxsie to see the Highlord’s command staff all attempting to care for him without his noticing, but at the same time it concerned her, which was all the more reason to attend to every hint she could find indicating an issue burdening the Highlord they might be able to find solutions for.

Siouxsie leaned back against a heavy crate--packed full of precious saronite ingots from what she could see between the slats of the crate’s lid--to watch Darion pause in his training again, this time to jab the point of his blade into the training dummy in what she recognized as some version of what must be a universal sword training sketch of vital strikes: each quick thrust of the sword a killing stroke. The marks he leaves on the dummy seem to satisfy him, because Darion steps back and assumes a ready stance again before going absolutely still, not even breathing in his focus. 

When Darion strikes it’s an instant of sudden violence--the lichfire glow of the torches around the training area flickering along the sharpness of his runeblade looks like lightning--with all of his strength and speed behind the blows the training dummy is brutally dismembered, blade slicing through each point he’d marked. Returning to the exact same position he’d been in before he struck, Darion remains for a moment, before stepping back and turning away from the shredded lump of straw and canvas.

“Is there something you needed?” Darion asks, drawing out the oil-stained rag that was tucked into his swordbelt and carefully running it along the edge of his runeblade.

“Nothing urgent, Highlord,” Siouxsie replies, still impressed with Darion’s display of skill, “Perhaps a spar?”

Darion turns to look at her for the first time, brow furrowing, “Do you not have duties to attend to?” 

Siouxsie does not find it pertinent to mention that as a result of not one but two members of his own command staff asking her to spy on him, her duties on Acherus have been reduced to teaching only the subject she actually enjoys--advanced shadow magic, to Thorval’s most prized and competent students, at the cost of him having to rearrange the schedules of half of his assistants to manage what she’d used to teach because no matter how skilled she might be she’d still hated dealing with his bumbling initiates--and the scouting missions the Deathlord absolutely cannot spare her from. Instead she answers, “They are rather light currently, Highlord.”

“Are they?” Darion asks, a sudden speculative look crossing his face. Whatever has occurred to the Highlord focuses him, because the faint sense of distraction that surrounded him is gone, replaced by a sober and intense observation of Siouxsie herself. He tucks the oiling cloth back into his swordbelt and assumes a ready stance, beckoning Siouxsie to the empty training ring. 

Drawing her own blade, Siouxsie steps forward, moving lightly on her feet as she and Darion begin to circle each other in the ring. Focused and intent, the Highlord’s sleek form in his training leathers reminds Siouxsie of a stalking nightsaber; just as earlier, Darion’s movement is exceptionally clean and controlled, and when he brings his runeblade around for a first testing strike at her defences she watches the dance-like weave of his footwork as he moves in and then back again when she parries. 

Siouxsie’s initial suspicion that the Highlord is working through some idea at the same time he spars with her seems to be increasingly correct. Darion’s concentration is not merely on her but beyond her somehow; as though he is looking through her to some further point that he couldn’t see before. The deadliness of his strikes is hardly lessened, though, and for all that it is only a light spar Siouxsie fights seriously. She’s always felt that lessening one’s skill for an opponent was insulting, and is pleased--even as she is somewhat harried--that Darion is meeting her with the fullness of his abilities. 

The spar ends with her blade whispering just past Darion’s throat in what could have been a killing move if she’d utilized the fullness of her greater height and reach, while Darion’s blade pressed gently to her sternum in an abortive thrust that could have gutted her if he’d carried it through fully. 

Siouxsie steps back and away from the point of Darion’s blade, appreciating that he’d successfully herded her into a tight corner among the storage crates that would have hampered her movement greatly, “Thank you for the fight, Highlord,” she says, still maintaining an awareness of his intent mien. 

Darion stares at her for a few moments longer, before saying, “Command me.”

“What?” 

“Give me a command,” Darion says again, sheathing his sword and fixing her with a serious expression. Even if Siouxsie was inclined to believe the Highlord was joking--which she isn’t, remotely--the look in his eyes would dissuade her from commenting. The Highlord stands before her and asks that she command him, and Siouxsie can easily guess that this too is related to the sense of being judged that’s permeated the entirety of her current interaction with Darion. 

“Get on your knees,” She says, rather than ask questions she’ll most likely find the answers to soon enough, and her tone is as cold and irrefutable as ice. The thrill of satisfaction that runs through her when Darion holds her eyes and then abruptly drops to his knees is visceral. 

“Come here,” Siouxsie tells him, beckoning with her hand as she steps back to half-sit on a storage crate. Darion obediently shuffles forward as gracefully as possible on his knees, but is stopped by Siouxsie’s booted foot coming to rest between his legs. She flexes the ball of her foot forward until it’s pressed directly into his crotch, and says, “Stop.”

Darion goes absolutely still--even his breath stopping--and looks up at her through his eyelashes: watching as Siouxsie undoes the laces of her own leathers and spreads the fly open to reveal herself. The sight of the pale hair dusting her mons pubis and the wet folds of her labia draw an involuntary noise from Darion’s throat; the soft sigh of his held breath. 

“Arms behind your back,” Siouxsie says, the same commanding tone sending Darion to instant action: his hands grasping his own wrists behind his back, grip tightening to ensure they stay put, and Siouxsie can’t resist the purr of, “Good boy,” that slips past her lips, nor the tremor that runs through Darion and the way the unholy glow of his eyes makes his pupils’ sudden dilation painfully obvious. 

Siouxsie resettles slightly, spreading her legs further and shifting her foot against Darion’s crotch--his obvious erection straining against his own leathers--before bracing her arms back against the crate she was sitting on and saying, “Now.”

Finally having her permission to move seems to stun Darion for a moment. He lets out a short breath again before simultaneously rolling his hips forwards to grind against Siouxsie’s boot and leaning forward to lave his tongue between her folds. Darion’s mouth is cool, as to be expected, but moves against her as though he meant to kiss the whole of her body from between her legs; the slick of her arousal spreading across his stubbled cheeks as he tilted his head to fit better between her thighs. 

It’s difficult to focus through the rising tide of her pleasure, but not impossible. At some point Darion’s eyes drifted shut, and Siouxsie studies the crease of his brow and curl of his body into the space she provided him. The tense and flex of his shoulders as he struggles to obey her command and keep his hands to himself. 

Darion finds the pearl of Siouxsie’s clitoris and teases it with gentle flicks of his tongue before sealing his lips and tongue against it and sucking it as though her pleasure was his only reason for being; despite the way Siouxsie could still feel Darion’s hips working restlessly against her boot and the tiny noises that escape his throat when his cock grinds against it. She can tell when Darion reaches his climax, hips stuttering and body shivering with the force of it, even as he keeps his mouth working determinedly against her; less coordinated now, as he rides the euphoria of his release, but still driving her inexorably towards her own orgasm. 

Siouxsie reaches a hand forward to wind through Darion’s hair, bracing his head as she moves him the way she wants him, and then clenches her thighs hard enough that she hears him groan raggedly as she comes. When she can collect herself to untangle her hand from Darion’s hair and sit back, Darion moves with her. He leans half-supported on his hands and knees, head resting against her thigh; his eyes are still closed, and his face is slack, mouth and chin and cheeks still wet from her arousal. 

“Siouxsie,” Darion says quietly, shifting to sit up under his own power and opening his eyes to look at her, “Report to the command table tomorrow morning at first shift, I’m promoting you to Mission Specialist.”

The professionalism despite his rumpled and oversexed appearance is oddly endearing, and so Siouxsie takes a moment to stifle her impulse to make an inappropriate comment before replying, “Of course, thank you, Highlord.”

Darion nods and stands, still slightly unsteady on his feet, taking the oiling cloth from his belt and using it to wipe his face before excusing himself. 

Siouxsie remains leaning against her crate for a while longer, pulling her leathers back up her hips and re-lacing them. She has a half-formed suspicion that she’s been set up--although by Thorval or the Deathlord she isn’t quite sure--but she’ll still need to go and consult with both of them--or at least Thorval, if the Deathlord doesn’t return in time--before she formally accepts her new assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack for this chapter being Father John Misty's cover of The Suburbs  
> although if i had to actually had to pick a Siouxsie and the Banshees song it would be Ornaments of Gold....


	8. Thoras Trollbane Pt.1 (or: the plot thickens?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoras is Difficult, but also there's a lot of plot involved at this point in the campaign, so thoras gets technically two chapters.

The Deathlord kicked Galen Trollbane’s corpse in disgust before gesturing for Thassarian to follow her to the ruins of Thoras Trollbane’s tomb. Nazgrim remained where he was, already preparing to summon a Death Gate back to Acherus. 

“Not going to stay to watch your brother Horseman rise, General?” the Deathlord asks, curious but willing to respect Nazgrim’s wishes. 

Nazgrim snorts, curling his lip back from his tusks, “You can handle that well enough, and I have objectives waiting on the Broken Isles; the time has come for me to return to the heat of battle.” 

“Suffer well, then,” the Deathlord says, as Nazgrim steps through the portal. Thassarian chuckles, and the Deathlord whirls around to kick Galen Trollbane’s corpse a final time before striding away. 

Thoras Trollbane’s tomb was like Thoras Trollbane himself, a grand and powerful reminder of a bygone age of the human kingdoms of Azeroth. The Deathlord listened with half an ear to Thassarian’s uncharacteristically enthusiastic description of the fallen king, following the history of Stromgarde engraved on the tomb before stepping forward and crossing the Blades of the Fallen Prince over her head. The power to raise him was there, to call upon the spirit and power that Trollbane had embodied in life and offer it a way back to the world of the living. 

The runes along the Blades lit, and flared brightly with power, as Thoras Trollbane emerged into unlife. Discovering more treachery of Galen Trollbane’s wasn’t a particular surprise, and the Deathlord stepped back to let Thassarian welcome the newly-risen king. 

Thoras Trollbane looked like the noble king Thassarian had described, which was somehow comforting: tall and broad; black hair and beard streaked with grey; a calm and meditative bearing. Even as Thoras stepped through the Death Gate to Acherus, the Deathlord caught his eyes assessing his surroundings and measuring his response to them. 

“Do you think he’s the same?” the Deathlord asked Thassarian quietly. 

“I never knew him in life, Deathlord, so I couldn’t say,” Thassarian replied, “You used the same method you used to raise Nazgrim, and have already confirmed that he’s,” Thassarian paused to gesture vaguely, “himself.”

“I worry,” the Deathlord says, “Only because the Highlord has expressed such a deep regard for King Thoras’ memory…”  
“I understand,” Thassarian says, “The Highlord has made no secret of his trepidation in regards to your project, it would hurt him deeply if his fears could find a foundation in reality.” 

The Deathlord sighs, “Would you mind helping King Thoras adjust? Nazgrim only lost a few years, but Thoras,” she gestures around the ornate tomb.

“I’ll do what I can, Deathlord, but it might be best if you asked the Highlord for his aid as well,” Thassarian suggested, “Seeing for himself that Thoras Trollbane remains as great as he was in life would settle his concerns and yours as well.” 

The Deathlord turned towards the waiting Death Gate, “See, this is why I bring you along, Thassarian.” 

“As long as you recall your promise to aid me in my own errand of retrieval, Deathlord, I will gladly follow you anywhere,” Thassarian replied, following her through the portal. 

Presenting Thassarian’s idea to the Highlord was easier said than done, and so the Deathlord took her inspiration from the fulfillment of her promise to Thassarian and the necessity of acting on his plan. Since Siouxsie the Banshee had been assigned to the command table full-time--in a move the Deathlord somewhat wished she had thought of herself--Darion had been more at ease than before, and with a small amount of spare time worked into his schedule that the Deathlord hated to deprive him of. However, the value of reassuring Darion that the Horsemen were rising as themselves, and putting his concern to rest in that regard, as well as Koltira’s return was worth enough that the Deathlord didn’t feel terribly guilty. 

It was a sore point, and had been for several years, that Sylvanas Windrunner had disappeared Koltira Deathweaver into her dungeons and the Ebon Blade had been unable to lift a hand to stop her. The Deathlord was aware it was something of a personal point for the Highlord as well, that one of his oldest and most trusted Knights had been taken from them. That the continual struggle between the Horde and Alliance, and Acherus’ own struggle to maintain neutral had rendered Darion incapable of successfully finding a diplomatic way to render Koltira’s return had allowed to fester a bitter resentment for the Banshee Queen that had been long quiescent, and that Thassarian’s gaining information on where exactly Koltira was being held had reawakened. 

Now, standing in the Highlord’s office as he visibly struggled to control his temper, the Deathlord reminded herself that she would need to thank Thassarian for his advice. 

“You are sure the information is current, and that an extraction is possible?” Darion asked, intently. 

“I am, Highlord, Thassarian assures me that if we act within the timeframe Koltira will be returned to us,” the Deathlord replied.

Darion nodded distractedly, “I assigned Thassarian to this mission as soon as it was clear no recourse could be had, but Sylvanas has squatted like a toad within the Undercity for the years since Koltira was taken. If there is a chance now, while the Banshee Queen is distracted in the Broken Isles, then it must be taken.”

“King Thoras will require guidance while Thassarian is gone,” the Deathlord said, hoping that Darion would understand her intent. 

His mouth thinned, and twisted into a frown, but eventually he replied, “I will see to King Thoras, Koltira is too valuable to miss this opportunity.”

“There is something else, Highlord,” the Deathlord said, “There is something happening in Stormheim, as opportune as it is the Banshee Queen has left the Undercity, my own dealings with her on the Broken Isles point to a plot we may not be able to ignore.”

“I can guess what it is she seeks,” Darion replied, frowning again “and know that it will need to be dealt with, but for now I am entrusting you with this mission. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Highlord,” the Deathlord said, before she was dismissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sure everyone feels the frustration that was the three expansions of No Word On Koltira, but for the purposes of this story, what happened was darion did his best to get koltira back Legally without completely undermining his own neutrality, and then when that didnt work they were forced to wait for sylvanas to leave undercity for a goodly length of time...which, if cata was spent trying to get koltira back diplomatically, didn't happen for either mists or warlords...so now in legion, finally, koltira gets a rescue!


	9. Thoras Trollbane Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the valentine's day chapter i failed to finish on valentine's day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> headcanon time: kel'thuzad took darion as something of an apprentice after resurrecting him, and mentored him exhaustively on unholy magic while shaping darion into a more perfect corrupted ashbringer than alexandros had been. (also why it's darion who ended up with kel'thuzad's grimoires rather than any of the other countless dark magic practitioners who doubtlessly went searching for them after naxxramas fell.)
> 
> also, as a note (out of pedantry more than anything) if darion died at around 19, then in legion his 'age' (mental age at least, since his body is stuck, and i'm not saying a Thing about darion's _emotional_ age) is about 30. which seems, idk, accurate-ish? old enough that in terms of experience and skill he's right on, but young enough and having had enough roadblocks thrown across the path of his development (death and mind control being big ones) that lapsing into angst and irrational decisions isn't remarkable? idk i'd like your guys' thoughts on this.

Darion was not entirely sure what he had expected King Thoras to be like, when he thought about it objectively. The stories he had heard as a child had painted the King of Stromgarde as one of the greatest warriors alive. A stalwart champion of humanity, beloved by his people and feared by his enemies. If he were being honest Darion could admit that he had somewhat idolized the King’s exploits, his father telling tales to both his sons when they had asked for them--and neither Renault nor himself realizing that their father had carefully steered the stories to the Kings and great champions rather than the common truths of war until they had been much older.

Now, to be presented with Thoras Trollbane himself, Darion was somewhat at a loss. 

It was easy to remain the Highlord and be professional, and Darion was immensely glad to see that at the very least the legend of King Thoras’ skill and valor had not been overstated, but at the same time--despite all that Darion had heard about him--Thoras was a stranger. 

A charming stranger, damnably. 

Thoras had adjusted himself remarkably quickly to undeath and the state of the world more than a decade hence from his own death. When Darion had began the process of ‘mentoring’ Thoras in the necessary skills and adjustments a newly-risen Death Knight would need, he had harboured a small fear that the King would refuse to listen. It was unseemly, perhaps, and unfortunate, but Darion’s self-consciousness about his apparent age simmered gently at the edges of his thoughts. 

He had barely been a knight when he’d been raised into undeath; piecemeal training given as quickly as possible had been the way of the Scarlet Crusade after the Scourge had ravaged Lordaeron. Darion’s father had begun training him to the blade as soon as he’d been able to learn as a child, but the skills of a paladin went beyond simple swordsmanship, and Darion’s connection to the Light had always been strange. Fragmented training and extended periods of time when the only teachers initiate paladins had were books, training dummies, and vague instructions to meditate had turned out a sub-par generation of Light-wielders, driven by the Crusade’s desperate need for new recruits and the turning tide of attitudes against them as their zealotry grew.  

Leaving the Scarlet Crusade after his father’s death, Darion had gained more varied skills than the average paladin might have--struggling to survive by himself as he searched for the truth about what had happened, and fleeing Renault’s growing madness--and had been lucky enough to receive more training when he had finally reached the Argent Dawn, but he had never been formally Knighted. The ceremonies and teachings that would traditionally have been passed down being condensed or merely dispensed with as necessity demanded. 

Kel’thuzad had often been pleased with the nature of Darion’s learning, claiming the lack of traditional structuring made it easier to shape him as had been needed. At the time, when Darion had been newly-risen into the Scourge and still following at Kel’thuzad’s heels around Naxxramas, it had seemed like a good thing whenever Kel’thuzad praised Darion’s circumstances and the ease of properly training him without having to wade through the ingrained dogma that had burdened his father’s rise. And it was true, from Darion’s perspective, that he seemed to gain skill in the unholy magicks Kel’thuzad tutored him in with unseemly haste; as though the time in which he’d been a paladin had merely been preparing him for his eventual rise as a Death Knight. The skills he’d brought with him into undeath being a loose model of what a paladin should know, and somehow the perfect blueprint upon which to build a Death Knight. 

Later, after being freed from the Scourge, Darion had become conflicted about it though. He appreciated the power that Kel’thuzad’s teachings and personal attention had gained him, but the memories of Kel’thuzad himself were ragged-edged in Darion’s mind. Being among his own brothers and sisters of the Ebon Blade had been fine, and Darion had never doubted himself as their leader and Highlord when he had spent years commanding them. 

Tirion Fordring was a dear friend and confidante and brother-in-arms--Darion would credit Tirion with saving his soul, if Tirion would let him, just as Tirion would remind him that it had been Darion’s words that had roused Tirion’s spirit to break through the bitterness that had gripped him while in his exile--and he had listened to Darion’s advice as they led the campaign against the Scourge. Some of the other senior paladins as well still remembered Darion from before his death, and extended a certain respect to him not only as a Highlord but for who he had been, once. With all those who had joined the Argent Crusade after he had fallen, and with all the rest of Azeroth, Darion had no such cachet, and commanding their respect had been a daunting task.

Not so much respect for himself--after all, the power of a Death Knight of his stature was impossible to ignore--but respect for his commands. And later, respect for the Ebon Blade itself as Darion worked at maintaining diplomacy and a place for Acherus in a world where the Scourge was considered defeated. He had managed, ruthlessly using whatever perceived inexperience his apparent youth engendered to work out the best possible concessions and agreements from those Acherus treated with, but it had been an uphill battle. 

Darion’s concerns that King Thoras would require a similar track had been, so far, unfounded. But the thought had lingered. Thoras had been living and commanding a nation and an army longer than Darion had been both alive and undead, and as much as Darion admired him for it the weight of Thoras’ experience was still somewhat intimidating. 

Thoras himself, though, was not intimidating at all. 

After the initial teachings required by an initiate Death Knight, Darion had been content to allow Thoras the run of Acherus. His own duties required much of his attention, but settling the matter of the command table had left Darion with enough free time that he could meet with Thoras at the end of each day to go over the deeper intricacies of the shadow magicks that animated them, or, often enough, simply to spar and refine Thoras’ grasp on the unique skills of a Death Knight through practical experience. 

The Deathlord and Thassarian’s triumphant return with Koltira had broken the schedule, somewhat, with the Deathlord requesting Thoras accompany her on missions once Darion had decided the Second Horseman was ready to do so. Thoras was well-learned enough now, and Darion had indulged Thassarian’s flat refusal to leave Koltira’s side as he convaleced in Thorval’s care--the master of blood magicks painstakingly cleansing and repairing every thread of shadow magic and link of necromantic energy that animated the Blood Elven Death Knight, both of the damage he had taken while imprisoned, and of any trace of influence the Banshee Queen might have attempted to weave over him--so the space on the duty roster had to be filled. 

Darion himself was glad enough to have Koltira back--although he had only seen him once since his return, Thorval’s work being delicate enough that only one observer’s presence had been tolerated, and Thassarian filling that place immediately--that the loss of what had become a regular comradery with Thoras had gone unnoticed until Thoras returned from his first assignment with the Deathlord and arrived at Darion’s office at the time they usually met. 

“Highlord,” the former King greeted him, smiling.

“King Thoras,” Darion replied--he used the title out of respect more than any meaning it held--looking up from the scouting reports he’d been assessing to gesture at the second chair that had been wedged into his office in invitation, “I had expected your assignment with the Deathlord to last another day, at least.”

Thoras nodded, extricating the low-backed chair from where it had been shoved haphazardly under the heavy table Darion used as a desk, before sitting, “We had a bit of luck locating the objective,” he said.

“I’m glad,” Darion said, “but how was the mission otherwise, I know that…” he trailed off, glancing meaningfully at Thoras to convey what he couldn’t adequately express in words.

“It was strange,” Thoras replied, “To be in the world again, and see how it’s changed,” he laughed suddenly, “My face used to be one of the most well-known in the human kingdoms, and now I am almost entirely forgotten.”

Darion hummed thoughtfully, “I cannot claim to understand exactly, but the…” he hesitated, searching for the words he wanted, “the disconnect, between dying and being raised into undeath, is something that many among our order struggle with.”

Thoras nodded absently, “When we had spoken before I left I don’t believe I entirely understood, but I would like to thank you for it all the same.”

“There is nothing to thank me for,” Darion insisted, shifting uncomfortably to look at Thoras better.

“No,” Thoras disagreed, “There is a great deal to thank you for.”

Darion attempted to interrupt, but Thoras carried on despite his protest, “Your efforts to ensure my acclimation to this unlife, to start,” he said, “your devotion to your duties is greater than that of many commanders and lords I knew in life, and the loyalty your Knights have for you speaks to their regard for you.”

“Thoras, please, there is really--” Darion managed, voice somewhat strangled.

“But I had not realized, when I was merely here on Acherus,” Thoras said, “the great extent of your deeds, Darion.”

“I have done nothing that was not required of me,” Darion cut in hastily, “or of my duties as Highlord.” 

Darion could feel the faintest tinge of dark blood that had found its way to his cheeks--the most he was capable of blushing anymore, thankfully--and knew that he was blotchy and wide-eyed with embarrassment. His protests seemed to amuse Thoras more than anything else, the former King not dissuaded at all from speaking, but pausing to offer Darion a somewhat indulgent smile, and more, reaching across the table to lay a hand over one of Darion’s own. 

“While I was away, I had ample chance to speak to the Deathlord,” Thoras said gently, “and from what I heard you have gone time and again beyond the call of what mere duty would demand of you.”

“The Deathlord--” Darion nearly sputtered, resolving instantly to wreak revenge on her at the next possible convenience, “The Deathlord has a somewhat biased view of my actions, you must understand.”

Thoras actually laughed at that, “Was the squad of Knights she selected to accompany us also biased in such a way?”

“Yes,” Darion bit out, turning his hand to draw it away from where Thoras held it. 

“And if I said I admired you,” Thoras asked softly, “would I also be biased, Darion?”

There was something in the tone of Thoras’ voice that gave Darion pause, studying Thoras’ face, “I would say that I have never undertaken any action with the goal of being,” Darion choked on the word, “ _ admired _ ,” he took a deliberate breath, “and that I do not expect it.”

“You don’t take praise very gracefully, do you?,” Thoras observed, his face still serious and intent in a way Darion failed to grasp the meaning of. 

“It isn’t something I have ever been much subject to,” Darion answered truthfully, the words twisting wretchedly enough as he said them that he had to struggle to keep his voice even; his eyes shifting away from Thoras’ own. 

Thoras nodded slowly. He had a look as though he was attempting to puzzle something out, or had reached a conclusion he didn’t quite like. “I have never been one to offer false praise, nor my admiration where it was not deserved,” Thoras said seriously, an undertone to his voice as though he was trying to convey some secondary meaning with his words, “I hope that is understood between us?”

“I--yes,” Darion replied, “your forthrightness and honesty are legendary, and I have found it an honor to have the chance to fight by your side…” he trailed off, looking at Thoras again.

“I am glad,” Thoras said, “I am very glad, and I wonder if you would allow me to express my admiration for you,” he paused, meaningfully, “more fully?” 

Darion blinked, “Of course--I mean--what--”

Thoras stood, leaned across the table, and took Darion’s face gently in both his hands before kissing him. 

“Oh,” Darion said softly, when Thoras broke the kiss and drew away, “oh.” 

“Will you come to my bed,” Thoras asked, voice rough, “and let me give all I have to offer you?” 

“Yes,” Darion breathed, letting Thoras draw him out of his chair and around his desk towards the door. When they step out into the hall--pausing so Darion can lock the door to his office--they keep a careful distance from each other, but Thoras leads Darion to the wing of rooms where the Horsemen have been quartered, drawing out his own key and unlocking the door to his chamber.

It was the same wing that most of Acherus’ command staff are located, near to Darion’s own quarters but a bit more private. The rooms are alike, most of them; meant to be used more as arming chambers than bedrooms, but still a private place to keep personal belongings. Darion is never overt with it, and certainly doesn’t mention it casually, but the keyring he carries has a master key for every locked door on Acherus. There is a certain strangeness that steals over him at the thought that he is the master of this domain in such an intimate way, especially now. 

When Thoras had been raised and acquainted with the functioning of the Ebon Blade, he had been added to the roster of Knights and granted his own modest pay just like any other recruit. Darion had been somewhat worried, before he had known Thoras better, that one of the issues they might have with him was a demand for some special treatment; an arrogance at having been a King in life, to be now so reduced. It was a relief to find that the worry was unfounded, and more, during his tutelage, to have spoken to Thoras about it and found him to be so accepting of the equitable treatment he’d received. 

Darion could admit to himself, however, a certain curiosity at what Thoras had done with his personal chamber, and a certain sense of anticipation beyond their intended rendezvous at having that curiosity satisfied.  

Thoras’ chamber was sparse, which was to be expected. The armour stand and shelves that were arranged against one of the walls were all of the type that were distributed by Acherus’ quartermasters. Books and personal items filled a few of the shelves, but most of them were still bare. A bed took up nearly a third of the small room; a heavy-looking thing of rough-hewn wood, covered in furs more than blankets, with a chest sitting at its foot. It looks comfortable, and like something recreated from a memory--Darion cannot judge, but wonders all the same--and Thoras must have noticed his curiosity because he smiles softly and says, “There were many times in my life when I would rather have been a soldier in my own army than the one commanding it,” as though that explains everything. 

In a way it does, Thoras’ acceptance of his unlife’s position within Acherus was bourne with good humor and a lack of complaint, but still, “I can’t entirely believe that,” Darion says.

“I never tried to shirk my duties,” Thoras replied, unclasping his cloak and laying over the chest, “but the responsibility you bear is something that I don’t envy, and respect immensely.”

Darion nodded, understanding the sentiment too well. He unclasped his cloak and laid it next to Thoras’, before letting himself be drawn into another kiss. 

There was a gentleness to Thoras’ kiss that Darion hadn’t expected. Even as they slowly shed their armour, Thoras never failed to draw him closer and offer more deep, gentle kisses. Not just running his hands over Darion’s body but caressing him. Stopping when Darion loosed his hair or finally removed the light shirt he wore under his arming jacket--revealing his death wound--to praise his beauty and strength until Darion was shaking in Thoras’ arms. 

The furs on the bed felt strange against his skin, but not unpleasant, when Darion finally stretched out across it. Thoras joined him quickly, letting his hands roam as he pulled Darion to himself until they fit together on the bed perfectly. He took painstaking time, driving Darion to the very height of pleasure and then drawing him back down agonizingly, only to begin again. Each time keeping Darion squirming and near-senseless, whispering sweet words to him as he held him on the very brink before letting him spill over. Thoras seemed to draw his own pleasure from the eroticism of Darion’s reaction to being cherished, not relenting until he’d pushed Darion into a dazed yet satisfied incoherence. 

Arranging them both beneath the furs and blankets so they were most comfortable, Thoras held Darion as for the first time in a long while, Darion slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've mentioned before my feelings about the paladin -> dk thing, and i maintain that something about the way paladins are trained (opening oneself to an external spiritual force? understanding how the light and thus its inverse the shadow works? being taught to channel emotion in certain ways?) makes them especially potent as initiate death knights. 
> 
> (although on a more serious note, since thoras doesn't really have a 'personality' that can be drawn from like all the other horsemen, i hope the one i built for him makes sense?)


	10. Sally Whitemane: Feelings Haver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how nice a time darion had last chapter? yeah, it won't happen again for a while
> 
> the entire mograine family was a hot mess, just so we're all on the same page. a hot bloody mess of danger redheads.

High Inquisitor Sally Whitemane had not been overstating her fate when she had asked the Deathlord if rising had freed her of the anguish of her unquiet death. Being returned to some form of life had never been expected, and prior to her inglorious death she would have railed against such a fate, but now Sally Whitemane welcomed at least parts of it.

For all that she was freed of the madness that had gripped her in life, she was now faced with the memories of the choices she had made, and then regrets those choices entailed. That most of the regrets that came to the fore of her mind were centered on Darion Mograine was not coincidental. Speaking to the Deathlord at greater length while completing her initiation and training as a newly-risen Death Knight had given Sally a fuller picture of things that she had been unaware of that had transpired around her, but also made the burden of her guilt weigh all the more heavily. 

It did not escape her awareness either that Darion himself was avoiding her as much as he possibly could. Sally understood why, and couldn’t fault him for it, but she knew that she would need to resolve to speak to him as soon as he was willing. Things could not be left to lie this way, especially now that she had been granted the slightest opportunity for a second chance. 

The Deathlord, mercifully, seemed ignorant of the exact depths of history that stretched between herself and Darion. Sally could remember the reticent child Darion had been when she had first met him, and didn’t imagine he had become any more open about his thoughts and feelings when he could help it, but she was still somewhat glad of the mercy of not having to explain herself to the Deathlord’s clumsy attempts to relieve Sally of details of her past. 

However the Deathlord was not the only person on Acherus aware of the past connections between herself and Darion. 

Thassarian had been the most gracious of them, simply drawing Sally aside to speak in soft tones, and casually mentioning that she might be best served in either continuing to avoid Highlord Mograine--and it was always strange, to hear Darion referred to as his title--or by making an effort to mend their relations. The unspoken threat of retaliation if she caused Darion more upset was clear, but still the most gentle in regards to herself. 

Lady Alistra, to whom Sally had been introduced as a mentor in Unholy magicks, was similarly elegant in her threatening, if perhaps less well-informed than Thassarian. The implied efforts that the Ebon Blade had gone to in assuring some vague happiness  and peace of mind for their Highlord was touching, yet the underlying implication that Darion required such strenuous attentions dismayed Sally to realize. 

Koltira Deathweaver was the most obvious in his offer of violence should Sally misstep, but also perhaps the most helpful in forming a course of action to take. His advice was simple: resolve the tension that ran between herself and Darion, or consider that her resurrection was a mistake to be swiftly corrected. As cold as the sentiment was Sally could appreciate the candor, and by the time they had finished speaking--for lack of a better term, Koltira having stopped her in a quiet hallway and spoken his piece in as few words as possible before brushing past--she was aware that the situation needed to be solved as quickly as possible. 

The only obstacle in her path was Darion’s similar desire to avoid her entirely. It took time, both due to her training and the missions she was tasked with accompanying the Deathlord on, before she was able to find time to speak to him alone. 

It was unlikely, and perhaps the worst venue possible for the talk that she and Darion sorely needed to have, but when the Deathlord mentioned that the Ebon Blade was still performing operations at the Scarlet Monastery Sally volunteered to assist. The logic that both she and Darion had the greatest amount of familiarity with the monastery was sound, and the Deathlord’s greatest preoccupation was the goings-on of the Broken Isles rather than the silent and ominous watching that had been taken up by what Sally had learned was the greater part of Darion’s command staff. 

The Deathlord’s concession to Sally’s volunteering was to inform her that the plan had been for herself and the Highlord to meet at the monastery, and that since he had already left Sally would need to leave immediately, before the Deathlord hurried to the flightmaster to take wing to Stormheim to attend to some sort of emergency. 

The chance to reach a detente--if nothing else, and Sally was hopeful that some resolution could be achieved, but she no longer wished for miracles--was enough to carry her all the way through the portal to Dalaran’s crater before the doubts struck. It was too late to go back, however, even if the novelty of nearly falling to her second death could somehow be reversed to return through the portal. 

The Scarlet Monastery still stood, a testament to the enduring zealotry of the Scarlet Crusade more than anything else. Returning here after her rebirth into unlife was as strange and discomfiting as Sally had imagined it would be. Her memories from life--a life of assurance that she was righteous in her cause, a life where she had done horrible deeds because of it--seemed to be overlaid on every step she took; dismounting her Deathcharger and making her way to where Darion stood. He was distracted enough--likely for the same reasons as Sally herself--that he didn’t immediately attend to her presence, although she could tell he knew she was there. 

Sally hadn’t had a chance to see Darion long enough to study him since she had been raised, and looking at him now was another painful return of memories. She recognized him as he’d been the last time she’d seen him alive--still rawboned and not fully grown, but obviously more a man than a boy, and matured even more by his circumstances--a touch older than he’d been, accounted for by the time between then and when he’d died, but still young. Too young, to have shouldered the burden he had, to have been alone--and they should have known something was wrong, should have realized, Sally herself should have realized, but she had been so  _ blind _ , so unwilling to see past her own belief that the Crusade was right, so easily led--

“I had expected the Deathlord,” Darion said, voice painfully neutral.

“There was some manner of emergency,” Sally replied, before adding, “and I wished to speak with you, alone.” 

Darion nodded once, and then led the way up the stairs into the cavernous entryway to the monastery proper. There were few remaining Scarlet Crusaders, most of them having been slain when the Deathlord had first come to raise Sally, but the stragglers still tried to mount a defence against the pair of Death Knights. In undeath her eyes were unclouded, and Sally could see the sickly sheen of zealotry and cruelty in their auras that she had never noticed in life; a sheen that had probably been shared by her own aura, Sally knew, memories of acts of cruelty masquerading as righteousness haunting her as she followed Darion. There was a certain amount of relish that seemed to possess him as he cut down the few guards, and it discomfited Sally even as she understood what memories he himself must have been motivated by. 

The heavy doors leading to the Scarlet Halls had been torn off their hinges at some point after her death, and so they followed the narrow hallway leading to the training courtyard unhindered. Chains and scrap wood littered the ground, and in the center of the courtyard a pyre had been built to dispose of corpses--mostly ash now, but with a few identifiable scraps of plate armour and bone--and allowed to burn freely. It was bizarre to return here, and see the decay that had taken the place after her death. Sally could remember walking through this courtyard not a few hours before the desperate party of intruders--who she now realized must have been hailed as heroes, to have laid low the Scarlet Crusade’s remaining leaders--had stormed the monastery and come for her life. 

“What is it that we’ve come for?” Sally asked Darion’s back as she followed him deeper into the monastery. He tensed, but didn’t immediately answer her, instead turning suddenly; runeblade arcing out to take off the arm of the Scarlet Crusader who’d lunged from the shadows of a turn in the hall--and Sally could  _ see _ the madness that had taken them, the ugly oil-slick that permeated their aura that she should have recognized in--the Crusader died choking on a muted gurgle of blood as Darion shifted in one terrible, elegant motion to drive the tip of his runeblade through their throat. 

“The shadow cache, if it still exists,” Darion replied as he stepped over the Crusader’s corpse, not bothering to sheathe his runeblade as they continued further, “anything that hasn’t been burnt or looted yet.” 

Sally nodded thoughtfully, aware that Darion couldn’t see the motion with his back turned, but not yet willing to break the silence that had fallen between them. The second courtyard they passed through was empty aside from weeds and debris, before they reached the staircase leading down into the depths of the halls. The dimness of the lower halls compared to the sunlight still streaming in from the staircase door was unnerving--Sally couldn’t remember a time that these halls hadn’t been lit brightly with torches--but Darion moved confidently, reaching up to push his hood back from his face as they moved further into the darkness. 

“Last I was aware,” Sally said, voice dropping to a low murmur as they passed rusted and overturned canons, “the cache was still here, but there were standing orders to dismantle it if,” she paused as they rounded a corner and reached the hallway that lead to the library, noticing the partially caved-in armoury doors and the scent of rot wafting from beyond it, “if there was anyone left who knew to enact them.” 

“Unlikely,” Darion said, as they reached the doors to the library, “the adventurers who sacked the monastery did a thorough job, the stragglers here now are remnants who came here because they had nowhere else to go.” 

The library was in a similar state of ruin, shelves overturned and books mildewing and strewn across the floor. There were shards of shattered pottery scattered among the books and pages, and scorch marks on the walls of the passage leading deeper into the library, and at the end of the passage was a room filled mostly with burned books and ash. Rather than turn down the passage, though, Darion turned towards the small alcoves along the walls of the library’s main room. There were two alcoves tucked off to the side of the main room, each with smaller shelves and lecterns for reading. Darion stood for a moment and glanced between them, hesitant, and for the first time Sally saw his composure slip. 

“The right one,” Sally said, softly, “I...I know it’s been awhile since you were last here.”

Darion turned to look at her over his shoulder, and in the dim light that filtered through the cracked and dirty library hall windows he looked almost grateful for a few moments, before he turned away from her and into the alcove. The room itself was tiny, and when Sally followed Darion into it they stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder; Darion shoving the lectern out of the way to search for the nearly-invisible seam hidden in the back wall. The torch sconce on the wall had rusted somewhat in the time since the monastery had been sacked, and when Darion turned it the metal shrieked in protest before eventually giving and activating the mechanism that opened the hidden door. The door likewise stuck in its tracks halfway through opening, and so Sally was forced to step back hurriedly as Darion began kicking the heavy wood panel to budge it open enough that both of them could slip through the opening and into the room beyond. 

Unlike the rest of the monastery, the secret room and the cache within had been left untouched by the most egregious decay and looting. The shelves that lined the walls and the long, low table that ran down the center of the room were just as they’d been when Sally had last seen them; everything still in their places and covered in dust cloths. Even down to the candelabra and small bundle of matches waiting on a shelf next to the door; Sally taking up the matches and lighting the candles as Darion sheathed his sword and wandered further into the room. 

With candlelight playing along the walls it was nearly enough to believe that she had never left at all; that she was simply doing an inventory on the cache--a store of found spellbooks both dark and light considered too dangerous to allow to be kept elsewhere but too valuable to be immediately destroyed, as well as a stockpile of other valuables for times of crisis--and would finish her work and return to her chambers near the cathedral; perhaps visiting the chapel first to see if--

Darion tore the dust cloth away from the table in the center of the room in a near violent snap of fabric, freezing in place as he saw what was under the cloth, while Sally glanced warily at the painfully tense lines of his back and edged around the table from the other side with the candelabra in hand before realizing what, exactly, so dominated Darion’s attention. 

Sitting on a small lectern that Sally herself had personally dragged into the hidden room late one night and wedged near enough to the table that it would fit under the dust cloth, was Renault Mograine’s libram. 

Protected from the decay of the rest of the monastery, nothing in the cache should have suffered the effects of time as harshly. The inlaid gilt on the cover of the libram still shined; the catches along the spine where it was meant to connect to a strap or belt-loops were still well-aligned; and the clasps that held the libram closed were still well-oiled enough that when Darion reached out with a shaking hand to snap them open and carefully turn to the first page they went without protest. 

The discovery of the libram was a shock to Sally--who had forgotten, when she’d brought the libram here for what she told herself was safekeeping, and then closed the secret room and never returned or told anyone what she’d done, even later when she’d told herself she would move beyond her grief but still was careful when she spoke Renaud’s name so she didn’t slip and call for Renault instead--but Darion looked as though he’d been struck. He had forgotten himself enough that she could hear the ragged intake of his breath, and the low miserable sound he made when he turned the cover and found the pages still stained and tacky with dried blood. It was a grim memento Sally had kept for herself--carefully wiping the covers clean after she’d snuck down to retrieve the libram from where Renault’s body had been taken, but unable to do anything for the blood that had seeped into the pages themselves--

“How did this end up here?” Darion asked, voice rasping, as he gave up trying to flip through the pages and shut the libram.

Sally looked at him: hands still stretched out to press against the cover of the book, shoulders tight and head bowed and turned away from her. “I did it,” she admitted.

Darion’s head snapped up; the lichfire glow of his eyes alarming in the candlelight, and even more alarming as it seemed to intensify with the force of the gaze he turned on her. If he were alive Sally would have said he looked feverish; eyes hot and wretched with emotion even as a tremor wracked his frame. 

“You,” Darion hissed accusingly, “you  _ kept _ it--after I--after  _ he-- _ ”

Sally felt the urge to run, momentarily, to bolt back through the door and away from Darion’s pain. He looked as though he might try and kill her, if the temper took him strongly enough. He looked as though he might weep if she averted her eyes long enough for him to start. And for a moment Sally felt the past bear down on her and all she could think of was a memory of Renault: older then than Darion would ever live to be, a mirror to what Darion might have grown to look like if he’d had the chance--high, sharp cheekbones broadened a bit with age, a better balance to the sharp, hawkish curve of the Mograine nose, hair and well-trimmed beard the same deep, true red their family was known for--and smiling at her, tension lines around Renault’s eyes easing away from his usual stress as he made a joke.

“ _ I loved him _ ,” Sally hissed back, feeling a thread of hot anger wind its way through her, “he might have been your brother but  _ I loved him too _ ,” the words came in a rush as she realized she was also shaking. 

“He  _ murdered _ father,” Darion said, voice rising until he was shouting, “ _ he murdered our father _ .” 

“And you had your revenge!” Sally shouted back. 

Darion seemed to crumple before her eyes, the emotion running out of him until he was wan and bloodlessly pale and so much the child that used to follow at Renault’s heels that it hurt her to look at him. “I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely, “I just wanted to confront him--I just--I didn’t want to believe it but I had to know--I didn’t realize--” he trailed off; ugly, dark tears spilling down his cheeks as he finally broke and wept, as he and Sally both were caught in the memory.

_ The corrupted Ashbringer seeming to come to life in Darion’s hands as he brandished it as proof of his accusation, demanding Renault admit the truth of whether or not he’d murdered their father. Alexandros Mograine’s cursed and corrupted soul seeming to tear its way from the blade and into a spectral form, raging and maddened as he swore vengeance at his eldest son and then swept out a ghostly copy of the Ashbringer and struck Renault’s head from his shoulders.  _

_ The naked, painful shock on Darion’s face before he turned and fled; taking the corrupted blade with him and leaving his brother’s body where it fell.  _

Sally put the candelabra down on the table and moved closer to Darion, but stopped short of trying to touch him. His face was turned away from her, one hand covering his mouth as he tried to regain his composure. 

“I’m sorry,” Sally said, unsure of what else to do, “I’m--”

Darion shook his head, straightening, “I’m sorry too.” 

The tear-tracks drying on his face glinted in the candlelight, the weight of the emotion seeming to lessen and ease as they stared at each other for a few moments; caught up as much in what they’d said as what had been left unspoken. The tension between them dying out as Darion scrubbed a hand across his face and then deliberately turned to survey the rest of the room. 

Sally drew in a slow breath and let it ease her nerves, letting the past settle back into its grave before following Darion’s line of sight. She grabbed the dust cloth covering the shelves behind her and pulled it down, revealing the wall of heavy tomes, some of them chained to the shelves. Skirting around the far edge of the table to avoid Darion, who still stood near the lectern at the far wall looking as though his own ghosts had come back to haunt him, Sally tore the dust cloth from the shelves covering the other wall as well. 

The cache was an assortment of vital items and valuables. One wall of shelves full of captured spell-tomes and grimoires, and the other stacked with tomes detailing the history of the Scarlet Crusade and scrolls of master personnel rosters and land deeds and carefully verified copies of account books. The table at the center of the room was covered in lockboxes and tidy piles of precious ingots and various carefully packed relics. The entire room both a small hidden vault and time capsule from a better and less desperate era of the Scarlet Crusade. 

Aside from the obvious riches, though, Sally wasn’t sure what Darion hoped to find. But as she inspected various items Darion seemed to revive somewhat, slowly turning his attention from whatever internal crisis he’d needed to work through to be able to look beyond the libram, and moving over to the shelf of grimoires. The gentle clacking as he shifted aside the chains binding some of the tomes to the shelf was the only sound for a while, before Sally felt comfortable enough to speak again.

“What did we come to find?” Sally asked. 

Darion glanced over at her in acknowledgement, but didn’t immediately reply, crouching to pull a small but heavy tome bound in blue leather from the shelf, “This,” he said, straightening and holding up the book for her to see before snapping open the bronze clasp and flipping through the first few pages. There were no markings on the cover that Sally could see, and the text within the book looked as though it was handwritten rather than printed. Beyond the obviously mystical nature of the few diagrams Darion had skimmed past so far, there was nothing to recommend the tome as being particularly important at all.

“How did you even know it would be here?” Sally asked, curious and well enough at ease to indulge it. 

Darion shut the book and carefully redid the clasp before tucking it into his belt, “Kel’thuzad had a copy of it,” he said hesitantly, glancing at her again with an odd expression, “I--When I was first raised into undeath he apprenticed me for a time, before I took up my duties within the Scourge. It was one of the few tomes of his which were lost when Naxxramas fell,” he paused again, brows knitting as he considered his next words, “I didn’t realize what it was at the time I saw it here, but remembered it later when I saw it again in his laboratory,” Darion shrugged eloquently. 

Sally nodded, and stifled her desire to ask questions. The Deathlord had given her a very vague explanation of Darion’s history, but hearing of details of his past from himself--especially ones the Deathlord hadn’t even alluded to--was enough to make Sally curious even as she recognized the pain inherent in his experiences. 

Darion’s eyes caught on the libram as he turned away from the shelf, “If you want to keep it you should,” he said, not looking at Sally, but gesturing towards the lectern. 

“Darion...” Sally began.

“No,” Darion interrupted, “You’re right, you loved him too.”

Sally reached out and laid a hand on Darion’s arm, letting her presence be felt for a moment before Darion turned and gently shrugged her hand away. He looked at her for a long moment and then nodded to himself, stepping out of the secret room and into the larger space of the main library room to summon a Death Gate. 

Thassarian stepped through the Death Gate as soon as it was fully formed, he hesitated slightly when he saw her over Darion’s shoulder, but offered his salute and greeting, “Highlord.”

“Thassarian,” Darion nodded his greeting in return, “strip everything useful from the cache and take it back to Acherus to be sorted,” he glanced back over his shoulder at Sally before adding, “High Inquisitor Whitemane will assist you.” 

“If that is what you wish, Highlord,” Thassarian acquiesced, giving Darion a searching look. 

Darion nodded again, meeting Thassarian’s meaningful expression with one of his own, “See that it is done,” he said, stepping past Thassarian and back towards the library doors. He paused when he was a few steps away, turning back and nodding to Sally, “High Inquisitor.”

“Highlord,” Sally returned with a nod of her own, before Darion turned and disappeared into the gloom of the ruined monastery. 

Turning herself, Sally went back into the secret room and took the libram from the lectern, adjusting the catches along the spine so she could hook it to her belt before moving to assist Thassarian as they packed the last treasures of the Scarlet Crusade and carried them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sally whitemane was difficult to write. darion was difficult to write. this whole chapter was difficult to write. _feelings_
> 
> since it was literally impossible to fit their entire history into this chapter, we kind of just skimmed the surface but it seemed more than enough. although i should note that if 'angry ghost decapitation' sounds like a silly way to die, that's the part of canon that comes to us from blizzard, not from my head ;P


	11. Nazgrim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update! double pain! holy fuck! 
> 
> aka: the lich king inadvertantly kicks darion when he's down

The Deathlord had returned to Acherus late into the night with the last item Salanar required of her. The Dark Rider’s glee at being able to finally complete his project--and the Deathlord had heard such a punishing variety of ‘riding’ puns during her time working at his virtual beck and call that she had to restrain herself from strangling him--was nearly palpable, but so too was the Deathlord’s relief that they were one step closer to completing their goals. 

She had hoped that there would be some time to rest before the Lich King would commune with her again and reveal the identity of the Fourth, but nearly as soon as she had left Salanar to finish his work she felt the brush of pressure against her mind as the Lich King reached out. It was, as always, a terrifying feeling to have the Lich King’s psychic might focused on her and her alone. It reminded the Deathlord of the Ebon Blade’s days among the Scourge, and the constant whispering of the Lich King’s will in the back of her thoughts. 

It was still her most vivid memory--and likely always would be--the exact moment the Highlord had seemed to gather the Ebon Blade’s connection to the Lich King, and then pull back against the Lich King’s control through sheer will alone. How Darion had nearly died the true death from the wounds he had taken and the strength he had expended; and how afterwards, they had been  _ free _ . 

The damned and the fallen, perhaps, but  _ free _ all the same. 

The Deathlord manages to pull herself into a curtained alcove--grabbing the two huddling geists who’d been using it to hide and shoving them out--before she collapses to her knees. There is ice forming under her and beginning to rime her to the floor, but she is beyond caring as the Lich King speaks directly into her mind. 

_ ‘There must be one among the Four Horsemen with the power to lead,’  _ The Lich King whispers, _ ‘Without a leader there will be no unity among the Four.’  _

The Deathlord chokes, black blood running from her nose and beginning to freeze to her face.

_ ‘The time has come for the Ebon Blade to return to Light’s Hope,’  _ The Lich King’s voice brooks no argument,  _ ‘The body of the great Tirion Fordring rests beneath the chapel. Go now, and do what must be done.’  _

Through some miracle the Deathlord discovers that she hasn’t bitten her tongue off--again, and Thorval had scolded her for being so careless while he’d reattached it--and hauls herself to her feet. She has to smash the ice holding her to the floor with her fist, but manages to rise and lean unsteadily against the wall. Her first instinct is to pretend that this hasn’t happened, but the rebellious thought seems to attract the last traces of the Lich King’s attention and as soon as she thinks of it a bone-wracking chill beyond any power she herself can control takes her body. 

The Deathlord forces herself to move, pale hair spilling out from under her hood and blood still frozen to her face. The Highlord’s office is the most likely place for him to be at this hour, and the Deathlord thinks that even if he isn’t there he probably wouldn’t mind if she collapsed on the floor and waited for him. This news warrants it.

In truth, she almost hopes that he’s not there. The painstaking work of the last few months to improve the Highlord’s mood is going to be undone as soon as she reveals what the Lich King has demanded. 

As was common with her luck, however, Highlord Mograine is sitting at his desk attending to a heavy ledger. He is distracted enough by his work--double checking the state of Acherus’ finances, from what the Deathlord can read upside-down--that he ignores her when she enters. This is fine, they are both aware that he sensed her before she’d even opened the door. 

“Highlord, it is urgent,” the Deathlord says at last, and is not especially surprised that she sounds like she’d swallowed glass. 

Darion looks up from his bookkeeping and pauses when he sees the state she’s in, but answers, “What,” annoyance coloring his tone. 

“I have received the Lich King’s final instruction,” the Deathlord replies. 

At once she wants to blurt out the news and then leave, but also, she wishes to keep it from him for as long as possible, and knows that she has no choices in the matter. 

“Oh?,” Darion queries, marking his place in the ledger and shutting it.

“The one the Lich King means to have risen as the Fourth…” the Deathlord trails off, finding herself unable to grasp the level of regret that would make her capable of cringing, but still unable to land the blow she knows this will be to Darion, “...is Tirion Fordring.”

Darion stands before he seems to know what he is doing, rounding the desk to stand before her in a burst of aggressive movement, “The Lich King demands too much!”

The Deathlord says nothing, half afraid that if she speaks the Highlord will kill her where she stands. He is a thing of coiled anger as he scrubs his hands across his face and through his hair, uncaring of the sharpened points of his clawed gauntlets. 

“Tirion Fordring deserves more than a life of anguish and undeath,” Darion says. He is not speaking to the Deathlord, or even seemingly aware of her presence for a long moment as he grapples with his emotions, “The Silver Hand will never give Tirion to us,” he says, at last turning to focus on the Deathlord once again, “our path to him will be soaked in righteous blood that will stain our hands forever.” 

“Highlord--” the Deathlord begins, but Darion cuts her off. 

“Go, now,” the Highlord says, visibly gathering himself. It is more frightening to see this careful control and know the anger lurking underneath than it was to see his earlier outburst, “I want a meeting at the command table in one hour, of all of my staff and the Horsemen.”

The Deathlord tries to speak again, but Darion shakes his head, “If this is what it takes to save our world, so be it.” 

The Deathlord turns on her heel and hurries from the Highlord’s office, her own discomfort forgotten in favor of the curl of dread in her stomach. There is something wrong that she cannot yet name, some sense that the Lich King’s will has not yet truly been revealed. Surely he cannot truly mean to raise Tirion Fordring? The memory of Arthas Menethil’s taunts at the summit of Icecrown Citadel, that Fordring might have been a great power within the Scourge, returns unbidden to the Deathlord’s mind. 

Perhaps he does. It worries her more, at the moment, that Darion seems intent upon following this mad course, and for the first time the Deathlord regrets her part in returning the Horsemen to the world. 

Darion remains in his office for a few moments after the Deathlord leaves, and then leaves himself. He moves mechanically, locking his office door through force of habit, before wandering out into the labyrinthine corridors that wind their way through this section of Acherus. He is not thinking of any destination in particular, but he cannot stay in his office with this news burning in his mind. 

For all the feigned resolve he showed the Deathlord, Darion feels, for the first time since before his death, something that could be called fear. He is afraid of the task they have been asked to do, and the thought sits uneasily with him. 

Tirion Fordring’s death at the Broken Shore had been a shock. The suddenness, the pointlessness; leading a charge against a greater foe was glorious, yes, but the sheer optimism Tirion’s final crusade had been based on. That the Light would protect. Darion had not felt such faith but once in his life. The first and last time. 

It was easy to let his bitterness color his thoughts on Tirion’s death in hindsight, and more, to let Darion’s bitterness at the Silver Hand’s final letter color his thoughts on a return to Light’s Hope again. That his greatest triumphs and greatest defeats had all taken place at the chapel was enough reason to feel conflict within himself about returning, but the pettiness and finality of the Silver Hand’s letter had sunk claws into the back of Darion’s mind and refused to leave. That the place of his own death and return to grace--his father’s resting place, even--should be barred to him was galling. Painful.

He had a right to…Darion couldn’t think of what he had a right to, but surely it was more than a letter. 

The part of himself that had been honed to viciousness and bloodthirst under the Scourge desired nothing more than to do exactly as the Lich King willed. To gather the Ebon Blade and march on Light’s Hope and lead such a slaughter that none would dare deny him entry. The part of himself that had remained  _ Darion _ throughout his death and unlife balked at the thought. It would serve nothing but satisfying his own pettiness, and would weaken Azeroth’s resistance to the Burning Legion in the bargain. 

The call of, “Highlord,” broke Darion from his thoughts. 

Nazgrim stood on one of the tiny side balconies that had been built into Acherus for no apparent reason other than to give balance to the necropolis’ form. Darion mentally figured how long he must have walked to reach it, and then figured again to find out how long he had before he would have to return to the command table. It wasn’t so long as he would have liked, but Nazgrim would need to be informed of the meeting regardless of how long Darion stayed to talk to him. 

“General,” Darion greeted in return, stepping out to the threshold of where the balcony began. There were heavy black drapes hanging around the opening--ragged and motheaten though they were--and they shifted gently in the breeze and gentle rain that rolled in off the ocean. It was night, which surprised Darion only with a sense of disconnect to see the sky after days within the Ebon Hold tending to business, and the clouds thinned occasionally to show a few points of starlight. “There is a command meeting soon, we make plans to obtain the Fourth Horseman.”

Nazgrim nodded his understanding, but remained looking speculatively at Darion, “One would think this is good news,” he said. 

“It is,” Darion forces himself to say, but Nazgrim gives him a  _ look _ again, as though he knows very well the words are ash in Darion’s mouth, though not the reason why. 

“Highlord,” Nazgrim says again, stepping off the balcony and back under the overhang of Acherus’ stone to where Darion stands, “I have come to respect you, as a leader and a warrior, respect me by telling me the truth.”

Up close Nazgrim is both much taller and much broader than Darion. Unhelmeted, the hair of his topknot is damp from standing in the drizzling ocean rain and beads of water have left trails down his face, but his expression is sincere and even; offering the solemn regard of a shield-brother.

“Have you ever had to choose a terrible decision because you knew it was what needed to happen in the long run?” Darion asks, not quite ready to share the details of his doubt, but allowing himself Nazgrim’s offered solidarity. 

“Yes,” Nazgrim replies, sighing heavily, “and I’ve chosen not to choose, and followed what my conscience and honor could live with as well,” he laughs roughly, “you can see how that one ended up.”

“There are things the living cannot do in this battle,” Darion says,”but I do not wish to have regained my soul only to lose it again.”

Nazgrim nods, the General’s mind able to guess the shape of Darion’s struggle even if he doubted he’d get the details until the command meeting, “If this action is as necessary as you say, then you can find a path of least resistance that will bring you to your goal,” he smiles slowly, tusks catching the dim light, “and if you can’t find a path you haven’t thought hard enough.”

Darion laughs softly at Nazgrim’s joke, smiling in return despite himself. Nazgrim has a grounding presence, and the subtle easing of the tension that had consumed him as Darion slowly extricates himself from within his own head is a relief. He offers Nazgrim his hand and they clasp each other firmly by the wrist and elbow in a warrior’s greeting, “Thank you,” Darion says. 

Nazgrim nods, face serious as he holds Darion’s forearm and pulls him forward into a full embrace. Darion stills for a moment before returning it, letting his forehead rest against Nazgrim’s chest and closing his eyes. 

“There is honor in you, Highlord,” Nazgrim says, voice low, “It is an honor that I follow willingly, undead though we may be.”

“Thank you,” Darion whispers, purposefully drawing in a breath and releasing it, before stepping back and breaking the embrace, “The meeting will begin soon, and there is much to organize if the Fourth Horseman is to be retrieved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nazgrim is such a solid bro. i love him. 
> 
> and i hope you guys arent getting tired of my deathlord. she's trying her best.


	12. Light's Hope Pt. 1 - Like a Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i considered saving this to post with the entire chapter, before i realized a) i'm way too impatient, and b) this whole part is so big i might as well make it into sections
> 
> anyways, darion isnt having a nice time at all :/

When the meeting convened around Acherus’ command table, the Deathlord could see her own trepidation mirrored around the table. Without waiting for the Highlord to arrive, she’d already shared the news of who the Lich King had instructed be raised as the Fourth. 

Darion sweeping into the room with Nazgrim at his heels was enough to ratchet the tension in the command chamber even higher, and the Deathlord tried not to wince when she caught Thassarian’s sharp glance and frown in her direction. 

Thassarian and Koltira moved to their places on either side of the Highlord as Darion strode over to the table; letting Nazgrim join the Horsemen where they stood arrayed around the Deathlord but leaving space at the table for Lord Thorval, Lady Alistra, and Amal’thazad. 

The Highlord did not immediately speak. Instead Darion looked over the papers and maps that had been dragged from Acherus’ archives and spread over the table; the remains of the last campaign the Ebon Blade had attempted at Light’s Hope, saved more for the sake of the record than anything else, now bizarrely relevant again. The Deathlord caught several glances in her direction out of the corner of her eye, and the unnatural stillness that often took Death Knights when they stood idle rather than fidgeting like a living creature. She could tell that no one else was willing to begin speaking before the Highlord, and in this case she was in agreement.

There was not a single soul standing around the command table who wasn’t aware of the fraught history Darion Mograine had with Light’s Hope Chapel, and more, the stress and grief that had weighed upon him since Tirion Fordring’s death. And now that the Ebon Blade was confronted with the Lich King’s goal of returning to Light’s Hope and taking Tirion Fordring for their own it seemed almost too contrived an opportunity. The chance for some form of retribution for the past and the Silver Hand’s slight as well as the revival of one of the few people the Highlord regarded as his dearest friends and closest confidantes was  _ too _ perfect for anyone to feel any sort of ease over it. 

Likewise, the Lich King’s involvement brought further unease. No matter if Bolvar had succeeded Arthas as Lich King or not, the power of the Lich King was the same, and the Deathlord had seen herself during the trial she had faced to claim the Blades of the Fallen Prince that both Arthas and even the long-dead Ner’zhul still existed as shades and faded spirits bound inextricably to the power of the Lich King and the Scourge. 

“Tirion Fordring,” Darion began quietly, not looking up from the map of Light’s Hope and its surrounding areas, “was the one of the greatest champions this world has ever known,” he paused, stilling and visibly gathering himself, “If we do this, there will be a price to pay. There will be no redemption for us, and no turning back should we go through with this.” 

The Deathlord watched the impact Darion’s words had, trying to subtly gauge the reactions of everyone gathered in the command center. The tense silence continued to reign until it was broken by Koltira making a frustrated noise. 

“We know this is a trap,” Koltira said, “We all  _ must _ realize this is a trap. The Lich King wants Fordring raised for his own gain, void take the rest of us, and we’ve known it since the siege of Icecrown Citadel.” 

Darion visibly relaxing at Koltira’s words was enough to open the floodgates of discussion, but the Deathlord remained quiet as Amal’thazad spoke over the din, “There are necessary ritual components to the raising of the Horsemen,” the Lich said in a nearly-inflectionless lecturing tone, “Each Horseman must be raised sequentially, and possess the proper attributes to fulfil their role or else the power will not be fully invoked.” 

“Perhaps someone other than Tirion could be chosen, then?” Lady Alistra ventured, glancing sidelong at Darion while turning to better address her question to the Lich.

“Perhaps,” Amal’thazad allowed, “but unlikely.”

“Unlikely?” Nazgrim scoffed, impatient for a solid answer.

“The Fourth Horseman is not merely a person, the Fourth Horseman is a force of living death and shadow loosed upon the world,” Amal’thazad said reverently, “A being empowered not by ritual alone but by the implacable nature of their will and the totality of their domination. They must be  _ acknowledged _ as true and absolute master of the Horsemen, and so the one chosen must have the qualities of a leader to bring unity to the Four.” 

The Deathlord nodded thoughtfully as Amal’thazad finished explaining, “If we fail to create the Fourth Horseman our efforts will have been for nothing,” she said, more to have the words be spoken than because of any doubt it was understood. 

“Tirion Fordring was a champion of the Light,” Sally Whitemane interjected calmly, “he may have been a great leader, but will he truly be turned?”

Darion moved to speak for the first time since the discussion had begun, “That doesn’t matter,” he said, “My father proved himself through countless acts of domination in battle against the Scourge itself, such that it was only by treachery he was finally defeated, and when he was raised as the Fourth he was fully transformed.” 

Thoras frowned, “So by this task the Lich King means to gain himself a coveted servant and exercise his cruelty as well?” 

“Yes,” Thassarian replied immediately, sparing a careful glance at Darion, “but Tirion Fordring is the most viable option we have. Look at Rivendare, or Bloodbane and his foolish project, the power of the Horsemen suffers if things are done incorrectly.”

“It seems we are left with few choices but to follow the Lich King’s instructions,” Lord Thorval said pensively. 

The Deathlord looked around the table, “Are we absolutely sure there aren’t any other heroes we could use instead?” she asked in a nearly hopeful voice, “If they just need to be dead and have leadership qualities I know a few people; all we have to do is ambush them and--” 

“As tempting a proposition as that is, Deathlord,” Koltira interrupted, absolutely sincere in his willingness to murder a hapless champion and avoid the Lich King’s will entirely, “and as obvious a manipulation as this is, I must agree with Thassarian: Tirion Fordring is the most suitable candidate available to us.” 

The silence that fell around the table was leaden. Every pretense of not watching Darion to see his reactions was gone; the ultimate decision of whether or not they would proceed rested on his shoulders. The Highlord pulled the map of the Eastern Plaguelands and Light’s Hope back across the table to himself, and studied it for several long moments before growling suddenly and banging a fist on the table. The violent movement causing Thassarian and Koltira to shift away from him on either side. 

“If we raise Tirion the Horsemen will be complete and Acherus will be returned to its full power, all the better to battle the Legion and any machinations the Lich King may have,” Darion said lowly, “but we will brand ourselves as enemies to every soul on Azeroth who reveres Tirion’s memory. And if we do not raise him Acherus will be fighting without her greatest strength against an impossible foe.” Darion drew in a deliberate breath, leaning forward over the command table and bracing himself on his hands, “Either way we are damned and condemned.” 

No one in the command chamber dared so much as draw an errant breath to speak, the only sounds the quiet creak of ice rime crawling across the floor and the wind catching in the cavernous lower breezeways and ragged banners of Acherus in an eerie whisper and snap of cloth. 

Darion straightened with a bitter laugh, drawing himself rigidly to his full height and looking around at the gathered Death Knights, “It seems we must obey,” he said grimly, “and begin preparations to invade Light’s Hope.” 

The Deathlord leaned forward to look at the map from across the table, “How are we meant to overcome Light’s Hope’s defenders now when we failed before with an army of thousands of Scourge to overwhelm them?” 

“We wait,” Darion said, the decision seeming to have lightened some burden within him enough that his mouth twisted with a grim sort of relish at the challenge he was faced with, “Send scouts to Death’s Breach to re-establish our camp there and clear whatever miserable wretches have crawled back to the Noxious Glade since Acherus has been gone. The Silver Hand will return to their crusade soon enough, and when the bulk of their forces are gone we will strike.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting into the actual mechanics of creating the four horsemen is interesting, mostly because i like to think they're a big deal. as a magic discipline necromancy in wow has some pretty cool features, so as far as i'm concerned the horsemen have always been more than more-powerful-than-average death knights with matching mounts? its a ritual, there's special powers being dealt with, so there must be some sort of rules for how it works. (and so i made some up)


	13. Light's Hope Pt. 2 - I Am and I Am Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lines attached to the light's hope chapters are poetry, 'like a shadow, i am and i am not', by rumi. i considered going in for biblical references but this line just struck me.

Creating their plans and beginning to prepare for war was something the Ebon Blade was familiar enough with that neither the Deathlord nor the Horseman had few issues with the simple tasks involved, but the weight of what they were preparing to do still bore down on them. 

The Highlord had given strict orders that no word of what they prepared to do was to be shared with anyone besides those who had been present at the meeting, but each of them was so reluctant to speak of it even to each other that the threat of punishment was more for form’s sake than any necessity. 

Waiting was something the Deathlord had never been very good at. She had died and fallen to the Scourge because of her own impatience, and death had done very little to temper the worst aspects of her personality; if anything, the Scourge had encouraged several of them to greater heights. Waiting to strike at what was very nearly the heart of Light worship on Azeroth to drag one of the Light’s greatest champions into undeath was near torture. 

Over the course of several weeks, Death’s Breach and the Noxious Glade had been claimed and hastily--but secretly--prepared as staging areas for the imminent invasion of Light’s Hope. The Deathlord had accompanied the Highlord personally on several inspections and scouting trips, and each time they stepped through the portal to Death’s Breach and saw the remains of the Ebon Blade’s ground camp--left purposefully abandoned, and watched intently by a stealthy pack of geists in case of intruders--or trekked through the narrow tunnel leading to the Noxious Glade and seen the crumbling ziggurats she’d felt a wave of apprehension wash over her. The sense of wrongness that grew each time the Deathlord considered the task that had been laid before the Ebon Blade from every angle she could think of. 

Darion had seemingly thrown himself into preparations for the assault, but the Deathlord had heard from Koltira--in confidence, speaking to each other as old friends and former fellow rangers--that the Highlord had just as many doubts about their mission as she did. It was reassuring to know that at least the Highlord shared in her concerns, and was likely scrutinizing their task as much as she was, but it wasn’t reassuring enough to overcome the boundless feelings of foreboding. Retracing nearly the same path they’d taken during their last assault on Light’s Hope and being constantly struck by the thought that even if that battle had ended with the Ebon Blade’s freedom, it had also ended with their betrayal by the Lich King.

The Lich King who now called them to Light’s Hope again. 

Normal operations had to be maintained to keep Acherus’ foothold on the Broken Isles, and also maintain their diplomacy with what allies they had, and the surrealness of knowing that at any moment the Highlord might summon her to the assault was distracting and uncomfortable. The Horsemen endured similar discomfort, some of which the Deathlord could simply sense, and some of which they admitted to her on various missions around the Broken Isles. 

Nazgrim was the least affected, but war was his element, and the Deathlord knew that he probably valued the sanctity of Light’s Hope the least out of any of them. It was somewhat comforting, but even he felt a sense of trepidation when he contemplated what the raising of Tirion Fordring would mean to the Ebon Blade’s careful peace with the factions of Azeroth. 

Thoras shared his doubts freely when the Deathlord spoke to him, and listened to her own doubts with a patient ear. The regal confidence he carried himself with was at strange odds with the hunch of his shoulders and stony frown that came over him when they discussed it--and more odd was listening to Thoras speak about the Tirion Fordring he had met in life, a few times during the Second War--and the obvious concern for Darion he felt. The Deathlord had felt some pride to have encouraged Thoras’ interest and affection for the Highlord, but the reasons for his concern were too sobering for it to be more than passing. 

Sally could hardly bring herself to speak of what was planned even with the Deathlord, the deep reverence for the Light that she had held in life now at war with the dark necessity of her calling as a Death Knight. That she struggled the most with her concern for Darion was unsurprising as well, but seemed unwilling to express too much of it for some reason the Deathlord had been reluctant to pry into, especially with only a vague idea of the history that was shared between Whitemane and the Highlord. 

When the call finally came, it was almost a relief--or would have been, if not for the sudden feeling of dread that seemed to take all of Acherus; from the lowest ghouls to the Highlord’s own staff. Even though none of them knew about what it was the Ebon Blade was about to do, the Deathlord still sensed the tension in every Death Knight she passed on the way to the chamber Amal’thuzad had prepared with a Death Gate directly to Death’s Breach. 

Passing through the portal to arrive at the ruined campsite, before hurrying along the tunnel to the Noxious Glade, the Deathlord felt nearly physically ill with foreboding. Even though she’d been here time and again to check the preparations, suddenly following the trail down to the very same hill the Ebon Blade had waited upon to begin their last invasion of Light’s Hope was too much. Even the light seemed the same, the sunset catching on the scattered clouds and making the sky look bloody; the walls and banners of Light’s Hope dyed scarlet by the dusk. 

The Highlord sat upon his Deathcharger, surrounded by the Horsemen, staring intently at Light’s Hope’s distant walls. Though the Deathlord made plenty of noise as she spurred her own Deathcharger on to reach the group more quickly, he ignored her presence to continue studying the sanctum. The eloquently perturbed look High Inquisitor Whitemane sent her was more than enough to confirm that whatever calm the Highlord had managed to hold to during their preparations was quickly fraying as the opportunity for their strike unfolded. 

“Highlord,” the Deathlord greeted, feeling ashamedly relieved when Darion’s attention immediately turned to her. 

“Deathlord,” Darion nodded at her, removing his helmet and settling it on his saddlehorn before gathering his loose hair into a messy knot. His mouth twitched and he gave her a wry glance, “It seems like only yesterday that you and I stood in this very place, ready to destroy the Light in the name of the Lich King.”

The Deathlord was quiet for a long moment, unsure how to reply, “Has the bulk of the Silver Hand’s forces left, then?” she finally asked.

“Yes,” Darion answered, finishing tying his hair back and taking up his helm again, “Something has happened that’s drawn them out,” he put his helmet back on, and was suddenly businesslike in his tone, “a fast, messy deployment. Their attention is firmly away, but likely won’t be for long.” 

The Deathlord nodded, “What is our plan?”

“There is a tomb behind the chapel where the power of the Light is weak,” Darion explained, “raise the dead from within the tomb and it should distract the remaining guards long enough for us to reach the chapel.” 

“How do you know that?” the Deathlord asked, unable to stifle her curiosity, and never having felt anything but the complete and unceasing itch of the Light’s presence the few times she’d visited Light’s Hope after the Ebon Blade had been freed. 

Darion gave her a  _ look _ , but answered, “I have a connection to this place, and can sense the consecration in the ground to a more subtle extent.” 

“What will we do if we encounter resistance within the chapel itself?” the Deathlord asked, still unsure, and wanting every detail of their plan to be agreed upon before acting. 

“With the five of us, it should be easy enough to subdue anyone who tries to stop us,” Darion said, glancing away from the Deathlord and back at Light’s Hope for a moment, “Today we stand here not to destroy, remember that.”

The Deathlord gave her affirmative, and was echoed by the Horsemen, but the tone of Darion’s voice sent a chill down her spine all the same; it was as though he was speaking more to himself than any of them. 

Girding herself, the Deathlord, spurred her Deathcharger into a quick trot and emerged from the cover the thick foliage of the copse of trees surrounding the hill onto the path leading to the side gate to Light’s Hope. She was a recognizable figure, she knew, and although she had generally avoided Light’s Hope every time in the past she’d visited she’d never heard her presence commented upon; making all the more unsettling when the paladins guarding the gate stopped her and demanded she identify herself. 

Claiming that she was on business was the sort of sleek lie of truth that the Deathlord always felt her mother would have been proud of--in another life, perhaps, where she’d become the Magistrix her mother dreamed of instead of a scruffy Fastrider--and the paladins grudgingly let her pass, but the warning one of them gritted out was enough to wash away any nostalgia she might have felt with another wave of apprehension. 

“Tread carefully, Death Knight. This is  _ holy ground _ and we have little tolerance for your kind.”

Unbidden, the thought of the letter she’d seen arrive at Acherus a few days after the battle at the Broken Shore came to the Deathlord’s mind. The seal of the Silver Hand had been marked in red wax, and Darion had narrowed his eyes when he’d seen it among the sheaf of correspondence being delivered to his office; he’d dismissed the Deathlord before reading it, but the next time she’d seen him he’d been hollow-eyed and drawn. Understandably enough with the news of Tirion Fordring’s death, but remarkable because of the timing. 

The Deathlord had been a part of the assault on the Broken Shore, and as soon as the Horde had retreated and the ship she’d been on had docked in Orgrimmar she’d summoned a Death Gate and personally brought the news to the Highlord. His grief had been a heady thing; disquieting and intense to witness, but Darion had simply resolved to battle the Legion with the fullness of Acherus’ strength. There had been no haunted expression, no reason beyond the loss of a dear friend for anguish. 

The thought of it all made the Deathlord cold as she rode through the grounds of Light’s Hope towards the cemetery and tombs that stood behind the chapel; but then, the Deathlord was always cold. 

Dismounting and dismissing her Deathcharger back to the shadowlands, the Deathlord began to reach for the dark power that pulsed along with her sluggish heartbeat. Her breath puffed out in clouds of ice crystals, and the damp air within the tomb began to chill; delicate ice forming along the stones and on the ledges of the loculi lining the walls. Once she was in the depths of the tomb, she could vaguely feel the lessening of the Light’s presence the Highlord had assured her was there, and she set to work summoning an obedient herd of ghouls from the graves where the funerary rites were oldest and the blessings were most weakened with time. 

The immediate panic that swept the grounds when the ghouls were released was almost guiltily satisfying--the unending hunger for suffering that lived, always, within a Death Knight’s heart supping on the screams of terror--and the Deathlord broke from her cover in the doorway to the tomb as soon as she was sure the distraction had taken hold. As she sprinted towards the chapel proper she reached out along the most delicate of mental threads that ran from herself to the Highlord--the skeletal remains of the web that had bound the Ebon Blade to their Highlord under the Scourge, and their Highlord to the Lich King’s will--and tugged; the signal that her task was complete. A paladin caught sight of her and shouted, but his alarm was drowned out by the thundering of hooves as the Highlord and the Horsemen stormed through the gate--the sight stirring something in the Deathlord’s mind, a recognition at the sight of  _ four riders _ \--

The paladin who’d shouted the alarm closed quickly and lunged at the Deathlord, and without breaking stride she gathered her power and threw herself bodily into the shadowlands to become a wraith; passing through the paladin’s blow and misting intangibly along the path to the chapel with deathly speed before returning to physical form and vaulting up the steps. 

The doors to the chapel had been kicked in, and the Highlord stood amidst the wreckage, violence charging the air around him as he held Lord Maxwell Tyrosus aloft in a shadow grip, “The Hall of Champions is below us, Deathlord,” the Highlord growled lowly over his shoulder, “Go.”

“You will not succeed, Darion,” Lord Tyrosus gasped through the strangling grip of the shadowbind the Highlord held him in, “The Light will not allow it.”

The Deathlord stood back as Nazgrim hooked the edge of his greataxe into the seam of the hidden entrance to the hall and pried it open, and then motioned for the Horsemen to follow her into the depths of the chapel. As she passed into the shadow of the cavernous hall, she saw Darion tighten the shadowbind he held before dropping Lord Tyrosus and rounding on the entrance to the hidden tombs; the expression on his face beneath his helmet a rictus flash of pain the Deathlord glimpsed for a moment before she reached the bottom of the stairs and forced her attention to the paladins defending the Hall of Champions. 

Though she tried to merely subdue them, their determination to protect Light’s Hope from invasion and whatever deprivations they imagined the Death Knights were going to visit upon it--quite a few, the Deathlord admitted to herself as she called on the power of frost to freeze the mind of the paladin she battled--meant that they continued to fight through their injuries such that only killing blows stopped them. It was noble and valorous and righteous, the way they laid down their lives to protect this holy place, and even as it sickened the Deathlord to slay them the unending hunger that lived in her thrilled and satiated itself on the force of death and despair she brought to their last moments in the way that only came with the slaughter of the living.

Doubly sickening was looking away from her victims to see the obvious workings of a command hall: maps adorning the walls and marked with tokens she recognized as indicating Silver Hand forces; armour stands and banners organizing recruits; relics and librams collected for study. The recesses gated off from the greater hall and filled with candles and loculi, consecrated with the weight of blessing upon blessing as rites were given to the tombs on what was likely a daily schedule. The smoky, nearly narcotic scent of incense burning mingled with the scent of the flowering vines growing in the rafters and winding their way around the pillars near what could only be Tirion Fordring’s tomb and underscored with what the Deathlord’s sensitized nose knew as the faintest hint of rot to create an overwhelming perfume that seemed to soak into the very stones of the chapel’s walls. The statues of the great heroes of the Silver Hand’s past seemed to stare down at her malevolently for trespassing upon the Light’s mercy in such a profound way, and the Deathlord had to force her gaze away from their graven faces--the hard slant of light across the face of a man who could only be Alexandros Mograine catching her eye despite her efforts--and towards the waiting figure of Lady Liadrin, the Blood Knight Matriarch.

“Turn back from this unholy mission, or be purged by the Light,” Liadrin shouted, calling the Light to empower her blade before charging towards the Deathlord. 

The Deathlord dodged the blow and parried with one of her own, maneuvering to the side as she caught sight of the Highlord wading into battle at her side. Liadrin fought relentlessly, but was overcome by the combined might of herself and Darion; a brutal burst of shadow magic throwing Liadrin back into the pews that filled the hall.

Darion turned towards Tirion Fordring’s tomb--the white marble gleaming in the golden light that streamed in from above, still peaceful despite the blood that had been spilt in the sanctuary--and seemed to shiver, voice catching as he said, “The time has come, Deathlord.”

It was eerie to walk towards the tomb in the soft light of the Hall of Champions, the only sound their footsteps and Liadrin’s harsh breathing. The Horsemen stayed back, arraying themselves around the room, but the Deathlord forced herself to follow the Highlord forward, watching the tense set of his shoulders and the nearly-desperate way he clutched the hilt of his runeblade. Darion’s gaze sweeping from side to side as though he could see something the Deathlord could not. 

“You are a monster, Darion,” Liadrin spat, voice breaking as she tried to lever herself up from where she’d fallen, “the Light protects this chapel! Darkness cannot abide here!” 

The Highlord hesitated, a fine tremor running through him before he continued towards Tirion Fordring’s tomb, he spoke softly, but his words echoed throughout the hall, “Without monsters there can be no heroes.” 

The Deathlord raised the Blades of the Fallen Prince and began to call upon the power that would raise Tirion Fordring. For a single moment, she could feel the dark tendril of power reach out and brush against what had to be the fallen Highlord’s spirit; a sense of pure Light and faith overwhelmed her concentration, and then she was being thrown backwards away from the tomb. 

The Light exploded around the chapel, blazing unbearably bright and forcing the Deathlord to her knees with its strength. Through the stinging tears that welled in her eyes she could see the Horsemen around her all suffering the same way; overwhelmed by the power of the Light and driven nearly to cowering away from it. The Highlord was the only one still standing, and the sound of pain and shock that tore from his lips was enough that the Deathlord knew he managed it only through will alone. 

“Did you truly believe the Light would allow this?” Liadrin’s voice rang out, strengthened by the force of the Light surrounding her, “The Lich King himself had no power here!” 

“No,” Darion shouted, voice pitching up into a cry of pain as he reached through the Light to the shadow magic that would allow him to summon a Death Gate, “I will not allow the Ebon Blade to fall!” 

There was a tug that the Deathlord hadn’t felt since her time under the Scourge: the spider-silk thread of shadow magic that ran from the Highlord to herself, an old bond of psychic connection that lay mostly dormant, shredded and frayed from the effort it had taken to break free of the Lich King’s will and never repaired, a frail shadow of the former power to command his Death Knights the Highlord had wielded under the Scourge. It was enough, however, for her to feel the Highlord’s might alongside her own--a leviathan rising from the deeps to breach the surface for a moment, just long enough to make everything around it appear small--and to feel his unrelenting will extended to herself and the Horsemen.

When the Highlord shouted, “The Death Gate...take...it,” the Deathlord heard the words half as sounds and half as an ache that pushed her to move from inside her own bones. The Horsemen staggered to the Death Gate under the Light’s onslaught, moved by the same will that helped the Deathlord drag herself to her feet. She staggered as she tried to walk, and as she began to fall she saw Darion’s face twisted in a mask of desperate concentration. He reached for her, a sound of pure agony tearing its way from him as he summoned the shadow necessary to pull her to himself and the Death Gate and shove her towards it. 

As suddenly as the strength of the Highlord’s will had bolstered her, the strength leaves her as well. 

Darion screams--a sharp, high noise that pierced and echoed through the hall--and clutches at his head, collapsing to the ground as the Light seems to draw towards him with strange intent. His body seizes, the Light sparking like lightning around him, and the Deathlord shouts for the Horsemen to  _ move _ , to  _ get the Highlord _ , to  _ run _ . Her final command is punctuated by Darion screaming again, and it is Nazgrim who hauls Darion’s body over his shoulders--hissing and growling as the Light that dances around the Highlord’s body stings and burns him as well--before charging through the Death Gate. 

The Deathlord follows, Thoras and Sally both at her heels, and when they spill out of the Death Gate into the cool darkness of Acherus and the ocean at night it is the most relief she has ever felt in her entire existence. She stumbles and nearly collapses, but she forces herself to follow Nazgrim as he barrels down the stairs from Acherus’ receiving balcony towards Lord Thorval’s laboratory. Thoras and Sally race after them both, and for a moment the Deathlord considers stopping and answering the Knights on guard duty as they realize it is the Highlord’s unmoving form slung over Nazgrim’s shoulders and break from their posts, but the feeling that if she allows Darion out of her sight for even a moment will ruin whatever chance they have of saving him is too strong for her to do more than consider it. 

By the time they reach the laboratory, the shouting and disruption have heralded their arrival and Thorval meets them outside the door, directing Nazgrim to lay Darion’s body on a surgical slab.

“Highlord,” Nazgrim calls, hands hovering uselessly as he struggles with his urge to reach out and shake Darion, “We must do  _ something _ !” he shouts at the room at large. 

Aside from Thorval, the Deathlord, Thoras, and Sally, both Koltira and Thassarian have muscled their way past the crowd in the hall and into the laboratory; Thassarian very pointedly shutting and barring the door behind them.

“The Light has ravaged his body,” Sally Whitemane whispers, hand covering her mouth as she watches in horror as Thorval removes Darion’s helmet and starts in on his armour--revealing the pearlescent scars inflicted by the Light--she sobs quietly, “There is nothing we can do for him.”

The Deathlord steps back, pressing herself against the wall as Thassarian and Koltira step forward to stare down at Darion’s body and then catch each other’s eyes with speaking glances she can’t interpret but knows communicate dangerous nuance to each other. 

“Even in a lifetime of war, I have never before seen such sacrifice,” Thoras says, moving over to Nazgrim’s side as they’re both shooed back from the table by Thorval; his voice is thick with emotion and something that the Deathlord would call regret if she were thinking clearly. 

There is a deliberate moment where the Deathlord realizes what’s coming, and has a chance to choose to defend herself or trust herself to the brotherhood-in-death that is the Ebon Blade and its justice. She hesitates, tilts her head up minutely to catch Koltira’s eyes, and in the breath of time she fails to move Koltira has unslung Byfrost from where he carries it across his back and driven the point of the blade into her side. 

The blow knocks the breath out of her, and she staggers against the wall, the noise she makes drawing the attention of everyone else in the room--Thassarian glancing over and then away to continue his vigil over Darion’s body; the Horsemen, each of them surprised but not sure how to react; Thorval, who doesn’t even spare his attention from trying to work healing on Darion’s body, each attempt failing more distressingly than the last--before Koltira yanks his runeblade free and sheathes it again. The Deathlord presses her hands over the wound--not a killing blow, but enough combined with her other injuries to weaken her considerably--and freezes it before it can bleed too much, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. 

“The Highlord is dead,” Koltira says conversationally, “what, exactly, are we supposed to do now?”

The Deathlord gurgles out an incoherent string of sounds, and Koltira makes a noise of disgust and turns away from her. He marches over to the door and unbars it, scattering the the Knights gathered in the hallway. He gives several succinct orders that disperses the crowd, the familiarity of Koltira’s temper some small comfort when word that the Highlord may be dead has likely already spread through the whole of Acherus. If anyone notices that he keeps his body firmly between the hallway and the slab Darion is laid out on no one comments, and after the Knights have gone to attend to the tasks they’ve been set, Alistra muscles her way past Koltira into the laboratory. 

For a moment Alistra just stares blankly at Darion’s body before she rocks back on her heels, wavering. She draws in a sharp breath, releases it, and steps carefully over to Thassarian’s side as Koltira shuts the door behind her and bars it again. 

Thorval’s ministrations yield no results. The master of blood magicks labors over Darion’s body feverishly, to no avail. When he shakes his head helplessly and turns away from the slab to drag the Deathlord to her feet and push her over to another surgical table and start mending the wound Koltira struck, it is as though the air has gone out of the room. The Deathlord can feel Thorval’s hands shake as they press against her side. 

No one speaks, and it is as though every sense of foreboding and premonition of disaster has been proven correct. Whatever the Light had done to Darion, it had put him beyond any reach of what the Ebon Blade’s necromancy can heal. The feeling of despair that permeates the room seems to coalesce, a weight bearing heavy on each of them, growing until it cannot be ignored. Frost creeps across the floor and walls. Thassarian and Koltira both draw their blades and square themselves up in opposite corners of the room, eyes darting around warily. 

A flutter of shadow hovers in midair, growing larger and darker as it ripples and shifts until a shadowy gateway has formed. 

Bolvar Fordragon, the Lich King, steps through the portal and into the laboratory. He is ravaged by dragon’s fire and rimed and frostbitten with ice; his psychic presence is immense, and the Deathlord watches as each and every Death Knight present shivers under its weight and tries to steel themselves against it. 

“Why are you here?” the Deathlord rasps, hands clutching the edge of the slab she’s sitting on, the wound in her side aching as she levers herself to her feet. 

“To complete what I began,” the Lich King replies, voice resonant and grating.

The tension in the room increases, each of the Horsemen’s hands sliding towards their weapons as well, and Thassarian and Koltira sending each other sharp glances behind the Lich King’s back. 

“So, what,” the Deathlord asks, drawing her swords as well “You plotted to get the Highlord killed and now you’ve come to claim Acherus?”

The Lich King laughs, a chilling, nearly condescending sound, “Arthas may have sought revenge on your citadel, but I have” he paused, “other plans.”

Bolvar moved around the surgical slab with Darion’s body on it, until he faced the Deathlord across it. He stood for several long minutes, simply studying Darion’s ravaged body--eyes following the scars the Light had inflicted--before stretching out his hands and calling upon power so immense that it was impossible to ignore. 

“Darion Mograine has sacrificed more for the Ebon Blade than any other,” Bolvar’s voice echoes through the Deathlord’s mind more than she recognizes it as sound, and she knows that his words are being carried to every soul on Acherus, “His body is broken. Scarred.” The Deathlord felt a sudden memory of the Light and pain it brought, evoked by the Lich King’s words and the steady rise of his power. “But death is for the living,” Bolvar’s voice rang out, not a human sound but the thundering of ice on the glaciers of Icecrown and the deep crack of splintered bones, “it has no sway over the damned.”

The dazzling blackness of the void seemed to open under the Lich King’s hands, pure shadow arcing between them; necromantic power such that only a god of death could wield, stretching towards Darion’s body. 

“ _ The Fourth Horseman lies before you _ ,” The Lich King’s voice is the raging howl of the wind, the ragged scream of a thousand wretched souls, the triumphant howl of hungering darkness, “ _ LET HIM RIIIIIIIIISE _ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should mention that the working title for this chapter was 'shit we got the highlord killed'. and yes, i did dip into bolvar's dialogue from the 7.2 death knight mount questchain, mostly because it makes more sense to me to use it here than to have him saying something like that to the player. 
> 
> about the scourge web thing, that's pure headcanon on my part. it has two parts. one part connects the knights to darion and goes dks-->darion, and the other part connects darion to the knights and goes dksdarion' portion, darion's half is ragged and damaged because when the ebon blade was breaking free his part of the whole thing ended up getting mangled by the process. he hasn't repaired it because a) he really can't without the lich king and that's not happening, and b) its one of the 'we're free' things that he can't just lean on people with scourge bonds anyways, so it doesnt really serve a purpose other than an overly-complicated plot device i need to explain so the Might of Mograine buff can benefit darion's party. lol
> 
> why does koltira stab the deathlord? because he likes getting being angry at people out of the way so they can start fixing what's wrong, and its not like he knew the lich king was going to show up like a bad penny (and im aware that in the game the deathlord raises darion, but you guys know how i feel about the deathlord having authority over the highlord, and also bolvar showing up)


	14. The Lich King

Darion shivered as the dim light in the tent haloed the heavy form above him. The orc’s white face paint standing out in the gloom as he leans forward and closes a hand around Darion’s throat, “You passed the test,” he rumbles, “now you will rise.”

“Ner’zhul,” Darion gasps, shoving at the orc’s shoulders, “No.”

“Yes,” Ner’zhul insists, “Thrice died and thrice risen, you will take your place.”

Darion struggles more, but is pinned, the edges of his vision blurring into darkness while--

_Alexandros Mograine panics and carries his stillborn son outside into the storm-tossed night. There was no time to go for the midwife, and Elena had struggled to bring their second child into the world. Now, at her urging, he rushes towards the creek in hopes the frigid water will shock the babe into breathing. It is a vain hope, Alexandros knows, but his own desperation and his wife’s painful labor drive him. He calls for the Light’s aid, knowing he has no training as a healer, only the strength to reach for anything the Light will give him to return life to the tiny body in his arms; Alexandros wades hip deep into the freezing water and plunges the babe beneath the surface as he makes his desperate plea._

_The Light comes to him as lightning splits the sky, and Alexandros rushes back to his wife’s side only to find her lying cold and still in the birthing bed. As he stands stunned and horrified over her lifeless body, the baby in his arms shivers and begins to wail._

Arthas grins down at Darion as he snaps his hips forward, making Darion moan loud enough that it echoes across the vastness of the glacier until the wind’s howling swallows it. There’s something Arthas enjoys viscerally about having Darion while on his throne, and he rasps out, “Yes...just like that...sing for me the way you used to.”

“This isn’t real,” Darion slurs, unable to stop himself from flexing his thighs around Arthas’ hips to take him better; his anger at Arthas' betrayal just far enough out of reach that all he can feel is the pleasure Arthas had been so smug about wringing out of him when his body had been so willingly given to his King's will.

“This is very real, Darion,” Arthas says, making Darion arch his back in a way that drives him further into Arthas’ lap, “Remember how you came to me? The vow you made?”

Darion tries to shake his head in denial but only ends up gasping as Arthas rolls his hips.

“Thrice died and thrice risen, Darion, time to hold up your end of the bargain.”

The last thing Darion sees is Arthas’ face before--

_The Scourge is making their final push on Light’s Hope, and Darion knows well enough that the Argent Dawn is barely holding them off. In the distance he sees Kel’thuzad’s towering form casting an endless barrage of razor-sharp ice shards at the Argent defenders, pausing in his attacks only to raise fallen troops--both Scourge and Argent alike--to fight again at his command. The Ashbringer is heavy, and even though Darion is used to it, there had been a trick of concentration and communion with the Light that had made the blade weightless in his hands. He cannot use it now, with the Ashbringer corrupted, and so he relies on his trained feel for its proper balance and does the best he can. The secret of Light’s Hope weighs as heavily upon him as Tirion Fordring’s advice: only a greater act of love can overcome an act of evil._

_Darion knows his connection to the Light has always been strange, although his father had never answered his questions as to why, but being faced with Kel’thuzad in all his terrible majesty he can suddenly feel the Light’s guidance. He knows what he must do, and in less than a moment he has turned the Ashbringer on himself and driven it deep. Darion keeps a firm grip on it even as he falls to his knees, trusting his soul to the Light. As the world fades around him, Darion imagines he can hear the roar of a thousand voices howling in rage the words he had spoken as he fell: My soul for yours._

_Darion opens his eyes again. He is kneeling at Kel’thuzad’s feet. There are motes of ash floating in the air around them, and carpeting the ground like snowfall; an echo of some great fury humming through the ground around Light’s Hope Chapel so strongly that the consecrated ground seems to glow. Looking down, Darion sees his hands still clutching the Ashbringer’s hilt and draws the sword out from where he buried it in his own abdomen._

Bolvar looks like he did when he was still alive, but when Darion runs his hands down over Bolvar’s shoulders the skin is burning hot to the touch, and when he catches sight of Bolvar out of the corners of his eyes he’s the same burned ruin that wears the Helm of Domination.

When he looks back over his shoulder Darion can see himself laid out on the surgical slab he’s sitting on the edge of, and so he turns pointedly to Bolvar, “What is this?”

“You know, Darion,” Bolvar says with something near pity in his voice, “This is what you were always meant for. Your soul for his. Now it’s time for you to take your rightful place.”

Darion chokes, and aches, and realizes all at once that he’s weeping, “Meant for? Meant to die, and suffer? That my sacrifice was decided before I even made it?”

Bolvar reaches out to wipe away Darion’s tears, and his fingers burn against Darion’s skin, “Thrice died and thrice risen, Darion,” Bolvar says as he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to Darion’s lips, “You know what must be--

_Darion strides towards Tirion Fordring’s tomb, feeling the weight of his task more heavily with every step. To be at Light’s Hope again is painful not just because of the sheer holiness of the place, but because the very ground echoes with the memory of his death here. At the edge of his hearing, Darion catches the whispers of the heroes and champions whose souls were awakened by his sacrifice._

_When the Light comes for him he cannot help but scream. Distantly he can hear the Deathlord shouting, but all Darion can bring himself to focus on is the sudden presence of his father._

_Alexandros Mograine looks as he had before death, but his face is weary, “You made a promise, Darion,” he says, “An oath to the Light to take my place--”_

_Alexandros’ hands reach out and clasp Darion by the shoulders and the Light drives into his spirit like a brand; all Darion can do is scream._

_“You won freedom for my soul with your own, Darion, and paid to consecrate this place with your life,” Alexandros continues, as though he hadn’t heard, “but the time has come, my son, the Light calls you to fulfil your oath--”_

_Darion feels the Light’s fire scouring through his body as nearly unbearable pain, but he can’t make himself to look away from his father’s saddened face even as he burns._

_“The Fourth Horseman must ride,” Alexandros says, intently, appearing suddenly as he had in undeath; a grim figure in heavy black plate, unquestioned master of the Four. His grip crushing and freezing where he holds Darion._

_The last thing Darion sees is his father’s spirit: throat slit open to dark blood and the gleam of bone, just as it had looked when Darion had struck his father down while retrieving the corrupted Ashbringer._

_“You must take my place,” Alexandros’ voice echoes, chasing Darion into the darkness as everything goes black._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this chapter ready for about a month now and its been killing me to hold it back so here you go. as a note, all the flashback deaths darion suffers are 100% canonical, because he really just had died a bunch and then been brought back. 
> 
> and of course arthas is the questionably-tasteful dream sequence sex that i can never not write. dont ask me. i dont know.


	15. Awakening Pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *weeps gentle end-of-semester tears*

The first time Darion wakes after his resurrection it is only for a moment, body arching up from the surgical table he’d been laid out on. The Deathlord had still been intently watching Bolvar for any sign of deceit, but stepped back hastily as Darion’s body seized, making room for Thorval as the necrosurgeon rushed to the Highlord’s side. 

Darion’s eyes had opened for a moment, wide and unfocused and blazing with lichfire, before he’d screamed and collapsed back onto the slab. The air still shivered with the weight of the shadow magic the Lich King had brought to bear, and tendrils of dark power wisped around Darion’s stilled form. The gleam of the pearlescent scars the Light’s touch had inflicted seemed to dim, the shadows soaking into them until they disappeared completely and then spreading across Darion’s skin to worm their way into every old scar and imperfection; driving away the pallor of death that lingered in his complexion to leave him as cold and pale as marble; before gathering and pooling in the death wound on his abdomen and slowly but inexorably easing the ragged edges and discolored skin until the unhealing wound began to knit closed, the stitches that held it shut snapping like gunshots in the deathly silence of the laboratory before being dissolved into shadows, until there was nothing left of the blow that had taken Darion’s first life but a thin and perfect line of shadow that sunk into his body and was gone.

The tension that had bent Darion’s form eased from him with the shadows, and he was left perfectly whole.

Thorval summoned blood magicks to his hands, before carefully checking and re-checking the Highlord’s vitals and the status of the spells that were meant to animate him, “I…,” Thorval started, pressing a thumb to Darion’s neck and running it over his pulse point, “half the necromantic weave that should be here is gone!” he exploded, looking over at the Lich King in frustration.

“The Horsemen are the pinnacle of the necromantic arts,” Bolvar said, voice somehow softer, but no less menacing, “and the Fourth Horseman is the greatest of them all, even Kel’thuzad could not fully explain the powers he called upon when he created Alexandros Mograine as the Fourth…” his words trailed off.

No one in the laboratory could quite tear their eyes away from where Darion lay, pale and still and perfect, the weight of power that hung about him making it impossible to see him as merely a dead thing, but so unnatural that it was impossible to mistake him for the living.

Bolvar’s voice hushed further, carrying the slightest weight of reverence “and Darion Mograine is greater than his father, and far greater than his father’s power.”

“When will…” Alistra finally spoke, stepping forward from where she had been frozen behind Koltira, “when will he wake?”

“When he is ready,” The Lich King says, finally turning away from the slab, “and when he does, I will be waiting on Acherus’ summit.”

The Deathlord opened her mouth to protest, if not the Lich King’s remaining aboard Acherus then at least the principle of his coming and going freely, but the words died on her lips at a shake of Koltira’s head. Alistra unbolted the door and held it open as Bolvar swept out before following, shooting an uneasy glance at his back but turning and stalking away down the opposite hall. Thassarian sheathed his runeblades and moved to Koltira’s side, the both of them sharing another of their eloquent glances and obviously settling in to wait. The Deathlord shifted uneasily as she watched Thorval reverently lay a cloth over Darion before turning up the edges and beginning to cut away the remains of his ruined armour and scorched leathers. Nazgrim and Sally both said quiet words to Thoras before nodding to the Deathlord and leaving together; Nazgrim heading intently back towards Acherus’ receiving balcony, while Sally lingered in the doorway for a few moments with a nearly despairing look on her face before she turned away.

For a long, quiet hour, The Deathlord stood half-leaning against one of the laboratory’s spare surgical slabs and watched Thorval work. Thoras, Thassarian, and Koltira all eventually gathered near her--Thassarian stopping for a moment to shut the door to the laboratory once again--and lingering in the silent hope that Darion would wake sooner rather than later.

The rhythmic sawing of Thorval’s trauma shears working through the heavy leather and maille was the loudest sound in the laboratory aside from the rare breaths the Death Knights needed to draw in--an effect of the magic that both simulated and stimulated their bodies’ natural systems than any true need for breath--punctuated occasionally by Thorval discarding a blackened piece of plate or section of armour. Stripping Darion’s body was so innocuously gruesome that the Deathlord was tempted to leave before Thorval finished--the sight of him simply cutting through the straps on Darion’s boots to remove them was viscerally uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t describe--but she forced herself to stay. It would have been too easy to simply lay the blame for this at the Lich King’s feet; regardless of what he had planned, it was the Deathlord’s fault as well, and she took the fear and discomfort of Darion’s death and aftermath as a penance for being, if not the cause, then at least the facilitator of what had happened at Light’s Hope.

When Thorval was finally done, and Darion’s armour--once a set of finely-wrought saronite plate befitting his rank as Highlord--was a heap of scrap leather and warped metal piled on the floor, he found another winding cloth and laid it out along the slab to shift Darion onto, wrapping the cloth around him like a blanket rather than leaving him simply draped like a cadaver.

“We need someplace he can be until he wakes up,” the Deathlord said awkwardly, looking mostly to Koltira and Thassarian.

“Definitely not his office,” Thorval puts in, “we all know that as much as he likes to pretend that awful cushioned bench is an acceptable place to sleep it’s really not, and laying him out on his desk seems, if I may say, rather unnecessarily grim.”

Thassarian chuckles, smirking slightly when Koltira makes a disgusted noise at the mention of their Highlord’s sleeping habits. Koltira elbows him and echoes Thorval’s sentiment, “Definitely not.” 

“Thoras,” the Deathlord says, taking a sudden inspiration from Thassarian and Koltira’s synchronicity, “you have a bed, don’t you?”

“I do, Deathlord,” Thoras rumbles seriously. For the entirety of their silent vigil over Thorval’s work, Thoras has been a solid and tranquil presence, but the Deathlord has become well enough acquainted with him that she can read the stress and worry he feels. “I would be glad to offer it until the Highlord is…” Thoras trails off, seemingly at a loss.

“Back on his feet,” the Deathlord says, intently. She gives a meaningful look to each of the Death Knights in the room, and takes their general acquiescence of her forced terminology as agreement.

“It would be for the best if no one saw him like this any more than they already have,” Koltira says, the tone of his voice making it clear that he’s dealt with as much sitting around Darion’s still-unmoving body as he can stand and is volunteering to go and shout at people to clear a path from the laboratory to Thoras’ chamber.

Thassarian nods and reaches out to grip Koltira’s shoulder for a moment, another private glance passing between them before Koltira is throwing the door open and stalking out.

Thorval looks between Thassarian and Thoras and says, “The two of you can move him just fine, Deathlord, you can carry this,” he hands her a small bundle of personal items he’d salvaged while removing Darion’s armour: the Deathlord recognizes the Highlord’s keys, the dagger from his belt, a palm-sized book with scorched edges, and a heavy enchanted ring of plain hammered silver. She grimaces, uncomfortable with these fragments of Darion’s possessions and the thought that he had chosen each item as he’d armoured himself before their attack on Light’s Hope, but adjusts them in her arms so nothing will be dropped or damaged.

Carefully, Thoras and Thassarian lift Darion’s body off the slab, ensuring the winding cloths are wrapped securely around him, before following the Deathlord towards Thoras’ chamber.

Koltira has obviously come and gone because not even the usual guards are stationed in the places they should be, the path from Thorval’s laboratory to Thoras’ chamber being devoid even of drudge ghouls running their mindless errands. The Deathlord fumbles through Darion’s keyring and unlocks the door before stepping swiftly aside so the two men can hustle over the threshold and lay Darion on the bed, leaving the armful of personal items she carried on an empty shelf. The gentleness with which Thoras folds back the bedclothes and covers Darion with them is nearly touching, but after the Highlord is settled--still unmoving, aside from an infrequently-drawn breath that the Deathlord is trying not to be too hopeful about--the three of them are left standing awkwardly around the bed.

“None of us feels comfortable leaving him alone,” Thassarian says, putting the crux of their issue to words, “but we can’t all stay here.”

“We’ll take shifts,” the Deathlord says decisively, suddenly needing to be done looking at Darion’s unnaturally still form just as Koltira had, “Thassarian you take first watch, I’ll organize the roster, Thoras you and the other Horsemen still have a mission waiting for you at the command table.”

Thassarian nods and settles down into the only chair in Thoras’ rooms--which the Deathlord distinctly remembers helping tether to the back of a skeletal gryphon when on a trip to Dalaran--but Thoras remains where he is for a moment, posture straightening and jaw tightening in regal disagreement, before he lets out a long breath. The Deathlord holds the door open for the both of them, pretending not to notice the soft, helpless look Thoras turns on Darion for a moment before he follows her out into the hall.

“It’s been a very long day for all of us,” the Deathlord says, unwholesomely relieved to be out of the room and away from the Highlord’s still form and the reminders of her guilt, and willing to gloss over the moment of Thoras’ insubordination out of deference to the emotions that drove it.

“Yes,” Thoras agreed, whatever steel that had straightened his spine back in his chamber easing to exhaustion.

“Take--,” the Deathlord paused and considered for a moment, “go get Sally and Nazgrim and have Thorval check you out, if he clears you for duty then take the mission Siouxsie has waiting for you.”

“Is it wise to spread our strength now, when the Silver Hand might retaliate?” Thoras asked with careful neutrality.

The Deathlord winces slightly, as though she’d forgotten it was a possibility, and shakes her head, “No, it’s absolutely not wise, but the mission needs to be done before the Ebon Blade pulls back defensively,” she glances sidelong at Thoras, “and honestly, you look like you need to kill something, so go, and if they come for us we’ll make sure they have to go through Bolvar first.”

Thoras laughs at that; a deep, rich sound that he can barely stifle as he nods agreement, “As you say, Deathlord,” he nods at her again as he excuses himself.

When Thoras is out of sight, the Deathlord glances furtively around the still-empty hallway before stepping into a curtained alcove, putting her face in her hands, and screaming. She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and screams again, covering her mouth with the thick leather of her gloves to muffle the noise. For a few minutes, the Deathlord stands slumped against the wall in the alcove, but slowly she gathers herself, straightens up, and goes to find Alistra to figure out who would be next to sit vigil at the Highlord’s bedside, and what to do if the Silver Hand came for their blood.


	16. Awakening Pt. 2

The second time Darion wakes after his resurrection is slow, his awareness easing out of the quiet darkness of a deep sleep. He feels strange, his awareness altered in some way that he can’t name but knows, fundamentally, to be different. Opening his eyes to find himself in Thoras’ bed is unexpected as well, for more reasons he can’t yet place. 

The Deathlord is sitting in the only chair, which has been drawn up to the bedside purposefully. Her eyes are closed, and she looks even more wretched than usual, but Darion is still floating slightly beyond full awareness, and notes only the strangeness of her presence. 

Moving slowly, he levers himself up to a sitting position, somewhat bemused to find that he’s nude beneath the sheets and blankets and....laboratory cloths that he’s been wrapped in. The Deathlord’s eyes open at the sound of the shifting bedclothes, and she all but lunges forward to steady him. 

“Highlord!” she sounds stunned, a nuance to the quality of her voice that Darion knows he’s missing, but can’t fully recognize the emotions of. 

“Deathlord,” Darion replies, his voice rasping badly enough as he speaks to startle him, “...what…” a rising sense of wrongness begins to take him, looking at the Deathlord’s nearly broken expression. He sits up further, letting the bedclothes pool in his lap and catches sight of his torso out of the corner of his eye…

“My deathwound--” Darion stops, a tremor running through him as suddenly, suddenly, he remembers. 

The Deathlord grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him back down into the bed, pressing him down as he writhes in her grip, pained noises spilling out of him until he stops shaking and lays still. 

“Highlord?” the Deathlord asks carefully, “are you alright--” she’s cut off by Darion pulling out of her grip and punching her in the face. The blow has enough force to rock the Deathlord back into the chair she’d sat vigil in, stunning her momentarily as Darion pushes himself shakily back to sitting up. 

“No,” Darion answers flatly; he breathes deeply and purposefully, still overcome by emotion and memory and the weight of the new power he can feel had grown in him. 

“That’s fair,” the Deathlord croaks out, nursing her bruising jaw with frost magic dancing around her fingers. 

“How long?” Darion asks.

“A little less than a day,” the Deathlord replies, looking relieved for the first time since he’s woken up. 

Darion shivers, a fine tremor running through his frame as the full awareness of waking continues to dawn on him. He glances at the Deathlord and has to look away because the sight of her is overlain with the spectral threads of shadow magic that animate her body. Knowledge of things he has no rightful way of knowing insinuates itself into his thoughts: his Horsemen are not on Acherus, but elsewhere, and Darion finds himself somehow  _ reaching _ for them. The impression that filters through the vague shadows that connect the Horsemen--to each other, but most importantly that binds each of them to himself,  _ the Fourth _ \--is that they are fighting, but as his consciousness brushes curiously against each of theirs, he can feel the shape of each of them in such a confoundingly intangible sense he’s forced to turn his attention away. For a moment, as his sense of them fades, he feels each of them recognize his presence; emotions stretching out along their bonds to him, the sudden knowledge that his attention galvanizes them to hurry their mission and return. The impressions they leave are distinct and overpowering: Nazgrim, the tang of blood and heat of battle; Thoras, the cold grip of frost and reserve of judgement; Sally, the roil of plague and scorch of revealing light; and interwoven with each of them, a thread of shadow, tying them back to the power Darion could feel within himself. 

It is a vast power that frightens Darion to perceive, but that he’s incapable of ignoring; a rushing swirl of air and darkness and decay. A deep void of pure shadow magic that’s settled so deeply into his being that just thinking of it brings the scent of fresh-dug grave dirt to his nose and draws the spectral winds of the shadowlands gusting through the room in a dizzying synesthesia. Distantly he can hear the Deathlord’s voice rising in alarm, but Darion is compelled, suddenly, to delve into the heart of this power that has rooted itself so firmly into his own heart. The shadow is ever-present, at once sweet breath of air and a sharp draft of cold, but twinned with it is the soft, weightless feel of death. He knows these energies; threaded them through his hands and around his fingers a thousand times under Kel’thuzad’s patient instruction and rare praise, the shadow slipping like silk over his palms and the distinct, unliving hum of necromancy vibrating like a bone knife clutched tightly in his fist. 

Recognition abruptly unfurls itself like a flower, a bloom of understanding as the power in him whispers its purpose to him and tells him its name: Death. 

Darion startles back into awareness all at once. He is laying down on the bed again, and the Deathlord sits next to him in the only chair. She looks so deeply unnerved as to be almost terrified, and there is an ugly bruise blooming along her jawline. Everything in the room is disheveled, as though a storm has blown through. A scent of damp earth and sharp cold hangs in the air, and the Deathlord hesitantly asks, “Highlord, are you alright?”

“Yes,” Darion replies, voice rasping even more terribly than before. 

“You were screaming, Highlord,” the Deathlord whispers, as though she is trying to gentle a skittish animal, and Darion would perhaps be offended if he didn’t feel as though he’s been shaken out like a pennant in a gale, “you started screaming and the shadows danced like you were calling them.” 

“Help me up,” Darion says, the vertigo of his expanded perceptions having passed.

With the Deathlord’s help, Darion is able to lever himself until he’s sitting up against the rough-hewn headboard of Thoras’ bed. His physical weakness seems wrong, but the overwhelming feeling that everything he was has been drained away and that he now exists as a vessel for the new and more potent strength that slowly fills him is too much to deny. 

“How’s your jaw?” Darion asks awkwardly as the Deathlord allows herself to collapse back into the chair after helping him. The question startles a laugh from her, and for the first time since he’s woken she smiles, albeit grimly.

“It’s fine,” she says, “hurts like I deserve for listening to the Lich King, of all the void-damned souls to take directions from.” 

Darion shakes his head slowly, “No,” he says softly, “It isn't your fault, and it isn’t really Bolvar’s fault either,” she looks at him askance, and he finally voices what he realized the moment the Light manifested as his father’s spirit during their attack on Light’s Hope, “I see now what I didn’t see before, my destiny was written long ago,” he pauses, eyes following the line of his chest down to the place his deathwound used to be, “This burden has always been mine to bear.”

“If you say so,” the Deathlord grumbles, crossing her arms across her chest, “whatever it is, Bolvar has been here, waiting for you to wake just like all the rest of us.” 

Darion nods, “Did my armour survive?” he glances around suddenly, “Did my runeblade?”

“No,” the Deathlord replies, voice heavy with regret, “Thorval cut you out of your armour on the operating table, and most of it was scrap anyways,” she hesitates, “Nazgrim found what was left of your runeblade on the receiving balcony, it--it looked like it was shattered.” 

Darion shared a grim look with the Deathlord at the loss. It was a momentous thing for a Death Knight to lose their runeblade, and even though Darion could no longer feel the unending hunger’s constant pulse in his chest--the bloodthirst swallowed up by the new power he played host to--his runeblade had still been tied to the essence of his soul, and it would be difficult to find a new one of suitable strength. 

“There were a few things Thorval managed to save, though,” the Deathlord said, trying to dispel the dark mood. She went to the shelf and gathered up the items she’d left there when they’d brought Darion’s body to Thoras’ room, and returning to her seat, carefully laid the items on the bedspread in Darion’s lap. 

Darion picked up the ring first, smoothing his thumb tenderly over the roughly-textured surface of the silver before slipping it onto his index finger. Next, checking through his keyring to make sure they were all still present and intact before handing them to the Deathlord, “Go to my office and find me some clothes.” 

The Deathlord laughed again, more genuinely, “I’ll do better than just finding you some clothes, I’ll find you a wash basin and some rations,” she arched her eyebrows playfully, “unless you feel like making the trek all the way to the baths?”

“The basin will do,” Darion said, lips quirking just enough for the Deathlord to croon triumphantly at him on her way out the door; already turning his attention to seeing how badly the tiny bound volume in his hands had been scorched by the holy fire. 

-

Once the Deathlord shut the door behind her, she stood motionlessly in the hall for several long moments. While she had watched the Highlord sleep she had worked her way through possible contingencies for all sorts of nightmarish scenarios: what to do if Darion woke and was once again in the thrall of the Lich King; what to do if Darion woke as some entirely different person; what to do if Darion never woke at all. That he seemed as much himself as ever should have been heartening, but all the Deathlord could think of was Darion’s bleak assessment of his own fate. 

The thought that Bolvar had somehow tricked them, or was playing on their misfortune was unpalatable but at least understandable. Darion’s belief that some manner of fate or destiny had maneuvered them to this point was disturbing in a way she didn’t want to contemplate too closely. 

During her travels, the Deathlord had heard that the united priesthood of the Netherlight Temple had uncovered an injured N’aaru and sought guidance from it, embarking on some manner of spiritual quest to receive visions. It was the sort of thing that made the Deathlord uncomfortable, for all that she herself was a walking abomination of undeath and unholy powers she had never sought any kind of special meaning or guidance from the beyond. That there were forces at play in the universe that had the power to shift a person’s life around for such a singular purpose as to place them at a particular moment in time to accomplish a goal was undeniable, but the thought that such a thing had happened to Darion was untenable. The idea that he had suffered and sacrificed as he had as merely means to a greater end was not something the Deathlord wanted to believe, no matter what Darion himself thought. The Highlord’s deep spirituality was something the Deathlord herself had never understood, but the bizarre comfort it brought him was likewise something she couldn’t bring herself to attempt depriving him of. 

“Deathlord?” The Death Knight on duty to patrol the corridor stopped a respectful distance away, “Is there anything wrong?”

“No,” the Deathlord replied, bringing herself firmly back to the present and dismissing her thoughts, “I have something I need you to do. Find Thassarian and tell him to get over here, and then go to the receiving balcony and when the Horsemen return, tell them to report directly to me.” 

The Orcish woman saluted smartly, fist thumping against her chest and then sweeping back to her side, “Suffer well, Deathlord.”

“Suffer well,” the Deathlord replied, before turning and making her way down the hall to the Highlord’s office. 

Fumbling through the Highlord’s keyring to unlock his door, the Deathlord couldn’t help but laugh somewhat hysterically to herself. The inanity of still not knowing exactly which key to use, after the dozens of times in the past few months Darion had sent her to fetch some ledger or grimoire was so mundane compared to how, about this time yesterday, she had been facing the very real possibility that she was at least partly at fault for the Highlord’s death that she didn’t know how else to deal with it. Getting the door open and stepping into Darion’s office to be almost immediately confronted with the sight of his empty sword-stand, glimpsed through the open side door that led to his arming chamber, was abruptly sobering. 

The sword-stand remained the focus of her attention as she made her way around Darion’s desk to step through the narrow doorway to the arming chamber, and for a moment she hesitated before moving it off the top of the trunk it was sitting on. Throwing open the lid of the trunk, the Deathlord found Darion’s few clothes to be predictably well-organized. Untucking a folded bag from where she kept it in her belt, the Deathlord shook out the enchanted cloth to its full size before beginning to shove things into it, starting with the clean set of leathers that were folded neatly on top and then rifling through the trunk to find the rest. Letting the trunk fall closed, the Deathlord bent to grab the Highlord’s spare pair of boots and stuff those into her bag as well. Looking around to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, the Deathlord pulled the ties of the bag closed and slung it over her shoulder before leaving the Highlord’s office. 

Focusing on her task and forcing herself to only consider the reasonable courses of action their present outlook provided them, the Deathlord stalked through the corridors of the residential floor of Acherus to reach the transporter that would take her down to the wide-open space of the combined trade quarter, forge, and training pit. 

Acherus’ quartermasters ran a brisk trade on replacement gear as well as a small range of furniture items; trade goods; tools; reagents; stationary; rations; rental ghouls; and all manner of odds and ends a Death Knight might conceivably have need of, or have gone to the trouble of filling out requisition forms for. Making her way to her favorite quartermaster, the Deathlord attempted to smile winningly at the Death Knight standing beneath one of the ragged purple awnings amidst a pile of crates in the section of the massive space devoted to goods and services. The noise of dozens of drudge ghouls dragging supplies back and forth for their masters at the runeforges across the room; combined with the hammering of metal on the anvils; the eerie roar of the lichfires burning throughout cavernous chamber; the muffled clangs and crashes of Knights sparring and training against each other in the ring that occupied the center of the room; and the sounds of haggling, shouting, talking, and the barking laughter of the geists who prowled the ledges and arches of the ceiling, filled the entirety of the floor. 

Of all the wings of the necropolis, this was the one that had always put the Deathlord most in the mind of an actual city. Sidling up to the quartermaster, she said, “Stefan Vadu, my love, do you happen to have a few more packs of that spicy mystery meat?” 

Stefan snorted and hefted his supply ledger in one arm to begin flipping through the pages, “If you haven’t already got them all,” he said, finding the entry and then setting the ledger down on a rickety table to turn and sift through the contents of one of the marked crates, “and stop calling it ‘mystery meat’, I’ve told you three times it’s Lono’tai’s spiced, smoked, gnome-meat recipe.”

“It looks like mystery meat,” the Deathlord replied unashamedly, grinning when he fished a pair of waxed-paper packets tied with twine out of the crate and handed them to her. 

“It’s a traditional recipe from his mother,” Stefan says, noting the distribution of provisions in his ledger, “keep calling it that and he might stop making it.”

The Deathlord dropped the ration packets into her bag and took the pen Stefan offered her to add her signature to the appropriate line in the ledger, acknowledging that she’d received the correct goods and that the price would be taken out of her pay, before stepping back to blow him a kiss and hustle away through the crowd in the trade quarter. Her last glimpse of Stefan catching his exaggerated eyeroll and stifled grin before she passed Ozorg and lost sight of him. 

Returning to the residential floor of Acherus, the Deathlord turned down the opposite hall from the one that would take her to the officer’s quarters and instead headed towards the communal arming chambers. Shared between multiple squads of Knights, they had mostly been used by those Death Knights who preferred to work as mercenaries and didn’t rely on Acherus for long-term board in the barracks. Now, however, with Acherus hosting its full complement of Knights for their campaign against the Legion they were once again being put to their proper use, and each section of barracks was assigned to one of the arming chambers to ensure that each Knight had proper space to store their gear and belongings without cluttering the dormitories. Making her way past the corridor that housed the arming chambers, the Deathlord turned and finally reached Acherus’ baths. 

They were not the most extensive or amenity-filled baths the Deathlord had ever seen--trips to the grand bathhouses of Silvermoon City before her death having formed the Deathlord’s ideal--and had been built mostly because even amongst the Scourge it was acknowledged that keeping a full host of Death Knights and their supporting necromancers, cultists, and necrosurgeons without a way to wash any of them would swiftly fill the necropolis with an unendurable stench that even the undead balked at. A vital lesson that had been learned in the early days of Naxxramas and that had been grudgingly accounted for in all of the Scourge’s major installations. 

The bath was a long, low room that curved with the corner of the necropolis that it had been wedged into. Entirely tiled, it was a fine echo chamber and a passable bath chamber. Partitioned into two parts, there was a small area where a row of sinks and mirrors lined the wall. Metal benches had been bolted to the floor, and opposite the sinks, there was a wall of wire racks that held various towels, washcloths, buckets, basins, and toiletries for anyone who failed to bring their own, as well as a large rolling laundry cart lined with canvas meant to collect the used bath linens. Past the partitions, there were more benches bolted to the floor along the center of the room, with shower heads lining both walls and a plethora of heavy-duty drains set into the floor. A clever engineer had built a system that collected rainwater into a cistern set into Acherus’ roof, which piped water into a row of massive metal water heaters that dominated the back wall of the room and were tended by a devoted crew of bath skeletons who kept the fires beneath the heaters burning, ensured the baths were clean, and maintained the vents that kept the steam and smoke from the water heaters from filling the room with fog. 

Taking a bucket from the rack, the Deathlord looped the rope handle over her arm before grabbing up a towel and washcloth and shoving them into her bag along with a wash basin. She spent a moment trying to remember if the Highlord had a preference for scent while she perused the various cakes of soap--most of them plain, but a few of them infused with oil of sandalwood or rose water--made with corpse tallow by the same cultists who made Acherus’ candles, did laundry, and combed battlefields to recover the bodies of any slain Death Knights who might be able to be revived. Giving up, she picked out one of the plain cakes of soap wrapped in brown paper and dropped it into her bag before tying the bag’s mouth shut and slinging it over her shoulder. Making her way over to a set of taps without a sink under the faucet to fill the bucket with steaming hot water. 

Carefully holding the bucket’s rope handle away from herself, the Deathlord left the baths and trekked back to the officer’s quarters without sloshing water everywhere; resorting to gently kicking the door to Thoras’ chamber in hopes that Thassarian had already arrived and would let her in. She was momentarily surprised when Koltira was the one who opened the door, but wasted no time in shuffling past him into the room anyways.

Thassarian and Koltira had obviously helped Darion move into the chair, because the Highlord was there, wrapped in an improvised robe made of the winding clothes from Thorval’s laboratory. Thassarian stood behind the chair, and was carding his fingers gently through Darion’s loose hair while the Highlord’s head drooped forward, eyes half-closed. Thassarian looked over at her and nodded when she entered the room, but Darion remained exactly as he was. 

For a moment, the Deathlord felt a soft whisper of shadow run down her spine; a tiny, visceral flash of the Highlord’s attention focusing entirely on her before dismissing her as a threat. It was a disturbing feeling, both to recognize it as the Highlord’s power, and because of the vague echo of the sense of constant surveillance that the Lich King had impressed on all members of the Scourge. 

“Highlord,” the Deathlord spoke, clearing her throat, “I have your things.”

Darion nodded, but didn’t move beyond that, and the Deathlord set the bucket down on the floor before going to sit next to Koltira on the bed with her bag in her lap. Koltira seemed content with what was going on, so the Deathlord didn’t question it, and merely watched as Thassarian began to gather Darion’s long hair into sections and braid it into a style she’d seen Koltira wear more than once. 

The Deathlord hadn’t taken a very good look at the book that Thorval had retrieved from Darion’s body, but she took the opportunity to study it now. It was a small volume with a thick spine, no larger than one of Darion’s hands, and he held it partially open in his lap as though he’d been trying to read it when Thassarian began working on him but had become distracted. The edges of the book were somewhat burnt, but the metal clasps meant to hold it shut looked as though they hadn’t been damaged. There were intricate metal corner pieces on the covers, with peeling gilt in some places and faded colors that made it clear the book was old but had once been finely decorated. Carefully, Darion shut the book and snapped the clasps shut. He handed the book to Koltira, before seeming to draw himself out of a reverie. 

“Deathlord,” Darion said at last, “thank you,” he sat forward as Thassarian finished with braiding and began to stand, “wait for us in the hall.”

The Deathlord nodded, “Of course,” leaving her bag sitting on the bed before stepping out into the hall. 

It wasn’t very long before the door opened and Thassarian came out carrying the water bucket and basin, with the folded winding cloths and damp towel in the crook of an arm. He didn’t stop to speak to the Deathlord, but continued down the hall and out of sight as she waited. When the door opened again it was Koltira, who tossed her empty bag at her and stalked off without sparing a word for her as well. 

Giving in to the urge to tap her foot, the Deathlord leaned against the wall opposite the door until Darion finally emerged. For the first time since she’d seen him awake, he looked better than if he’d been kept on ice by the necrosurgeons for a week. He had his dagger and keys on his belt, as well as the book, and seeing him dressed in training leathers and his scuffed spare boots the Deathlord could almost imagine for a moment that Light’s Hope had been a terrible dream. There were a few damp tendrils of hair around his face that were beginning to curl softly as they dried, and for a moment the Deathlord was struck so horribly by how young Darion looked--she never usually noticed, but having seen him so wounded and vulnerable had forced her to. 

“Deathlord,” Darion said, turning down the hallway without bothering to see if she was following him, “we are having a command meeting.”

Pushing herself off the wall and hastening to fall into step with him--and having the renewed sense of wonder that without his helm the Highlord was rather short--the Deathlord asked, “and Thassarian and Koltira?”

“Will be joining us, as soon as they finish their tasks,” Darion said, no longer seeming weak or uncoordinated at all as he strode towards the transporter. 

Arriving on the main receiving balcony that fed the lowest floor of Acherus and led into the command chamber and the three wings dedicated to the various disciplines of magicks the Ebon Blade practiced and studied, Darion was met with stunned silence. Stepping out of the transporter behind him, the Deathlord saw Dread Commander Thalanor pause for a moment at the sight of him, before saluting and turning to shout at a squad of Death Knights who’d frozen in whatever task they’d been given to gawk at their Highlord.

Darion ignored the attention, marching down the sloping path to the central command chamber. The Deathlord caught up to him from where she’d stopped to check in with the Knight she’d sent to the receiving balcony to await the Horsemen’s return just in time to see Siouxsie the Banshee’s razor-sharp salute. 

Thassarian arrived with Lord Thorval in tow, followed by Koltira and Lady Alistra entering the command chamber while having a quiet but spirited argument in Thalassian. At once, both of his advisors took their places at the command table, while Thassarian and Koltira took their traditional places at Darion’s right and left hands. The Deathlord was the last to step up to the command table, nodding at Siouxsie as the Night Elven woman stepped aside to make space for her. 

“The Silver Hand has not retaliated against us so far,” Darion said, eyes tracing the rudimentary repositioning of their troops the Deathlord had organized with Alistra while he was unconscious, “but it does not mean they will let the slight we have given them pass unavenged, either officially, or unofficially” he paused, “we must prepare for either.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not sure if you guys guess but i love worldbuilding. also does it count as cannibalism if you arent even the same species?
> 
> my favorite part of this chapter is honestly a tie between Stefan Vadu (my love) and the bath skeletons. 
> 
> in my Official headcanon, Darion is like 5'10". he could have made it to 6' like alexandros if he'd lived longer, but would have always been dwarfed by renault's 6'2" bc renault was fuckin' Built.


	17. The Silver Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for all you beautiful people out there who haven't read the ashbringer comic, this chapter is as handy a summary as can be found, complete with the emotional beat i really wish we'd been given after Light's Hope 1

Maxwell Tyrosus had awakened from unconsciousness on the floor of Light’s Hope Chapel to the sight of a tense healer and a bruised Liadrin leaning over him. The shadow bind that Darion had put him in was relatively mild, compared to what he was aware the Highlord of the Ebon Blade was capable of; his windpipe was bruised but not crushed, with a few other bruises and scrapes from when he had apparently been dropped promptly after he’d passed out. The grim look on Lady Liadrin’s face was more than enough to drive him to his feet despite the healer’s protests, and walking stiffly out the doors of Light’s Hope--torn off their hinges and laying propped against the wall, where they’d been moved out of the way after the attack--to see the strewn bodies of ghouls wearing what were obviously tattered remnants of the Argent and Silver Hand heraldry they’d been buried in was enough of a blow he had to stop for a moment, reeling so that the powerfully built priestess who’d followed him made an exasperated noise and slung his arm over her shoulder to support him. 

“How bad?” Tyrosus rasped, the pain of his mending throat not enough to stop him from asking. To begin to get an idea of just the sort of incursion they were dealing with, and how exactly he was going to get ahold of Darion and how much shouting he was going to do.

“The ghouls were raised from the lower crypts of the tombs behind the chapel,” Liadrin said, shifting nearer to Tyrosus’ other side in case he stumbled again, “one mercy the Light granted us is that the Ebon Blade was intent enough on their goal they struck directly into the Hall of Champions instead of bothering with the hospital or any of the barracks, but eight of the Silver Highguard lost their lives trying to stop them.” 

Tyrosus nodded gravely, turning with the priestess’ support to make his way back into the Chapel and down the stairs leading to the Hall of Champions. There was blood spattered along the bottom steps, and the discomfiting shiver that lingered after shadow magic had been used. The blood followed a path that struck directly through the operations center towards the cathedral-like space of the grand crypts of the Hall of Champions, and Tyrosus followed it; feeling the occasional bit of chill he was familiar enough with to recognize as a sign of the magicks practiced by the Ebon Blade. In the side-hall that served as an infirmary and center for the Silver Hand’s healers within the Hall of Champions, there were eight shrouded forms laid out and being blessed by a towering Sunwalker with golden caps on the end of his horns.  

On either side of the main hallway, the shelves of librams and tables with maps and orders were undisturbed; the gated alcoves of loculi were still locked and sealed as they’d been when Tyrosus had last checked them. In the crypt-proper, however, the destruction of the Ebon Blade’s attack was evident. Several of the pews were either broken or shoved violently to the side; candelabras were knocked over and extinguished; the carpet running along the aisle was bloodied and scorched, with a dark stain at the base of the steps leading up to the Altar of Ancient Kings and Tirion Fordring’s tomb. 

Tyrosus straightened up and withdrew his arm from over the priestess’ shoulders, thanking her and asking for privacy; after she’d left, he turned to Liadrin. 

“Now,” Tyrosus said, making his way towards the altar, “how bad is it really.”

Liadrin gestured around the cathedral, “This is most of it,” she replied, “I’m the only one who was down here at the end, but Highlord Mograine was apparently intent on raising Tirion into undeath…” she hesitated, “or at least it appeared that way.” 

“Appeared?” Tyrosus echoed, questioningly.

“I’m not sure,” Liadrin said, “but I have a sense of foreboding that there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

Tyrosus nodded absently, intent on the dark stain at the foot of the stairs leading to the main sanctuary of the cathedral. It appeared to be blood and ash, scored into the fabric powerfully enough that small wisps of shadow curled around it despite the almost overwhelming presence of the Light Tyrosus could feel. Crouching to examine it more closely, he asked over his shoulder, “What happened here?”

“Highlord Mograine ordered the Deathlord to attempt to resurrect Tirion, but whatever she was trying to do with her runeblades was stopped by the Light,” Liadrin explained, “The Deathlord and the three Death Knights that accompanied them--”

“I saw them, but didn’t have a chance to recognize them,” Tyrosus cut in, “Did you?”

“One orc, two humans; a man and a woman,” Liadrin crossed her arms over her chest, “they surprised me as well. We know Darion rarely relies on Knights who aren’t in his immediate staff, and the human man was not Thassarian.”

“Hmm,” Tyrosus mused, “The Deathlord was meant to perform the actual resurrection?”

“Yes,” Liadrin said, “there was something about her runeblades that seemed significant, but the Light stopped it, and stunned the Deathlord and the three Death Knights, knocking them back from the tomb.”

“Was Darion stunned?” Tyrosus asked, carefully beginning to roll back the edge of the aisle runner to reveal the stone underneath; so far, clear of any of the shadow stain that lingered in the carpet.

“No,” Liadrin answered, “He stood about here, and summoned a Death Gate before…” she paused, causing Tyrosus to look over at her. Liadrin had a grim look on her face, mouth held in a thin line and eyes narrowed as she stared down at the unblemished stone of the cathedral floor, “The Light seemed to narrow its efforts to Darion specifically; while the other Death Knights were stunned and knocked away, he was actively attacked by it. He collapsed, and began to scream, and the other Death Knights had to carry him through their portal.” 

Tyrosus was silent, looking away from Liadrin to digest what he’d heard. From where he knelt he could feel the Light’s power still filling the cathedral in whorls of disturbed and agitated energy; letting the carpet unfold back to its usual place to see the shadow stain already beginning to shrink and fade from the sheer concentrated force of the holy presence that welled through the grounds of Light’s Hope Chapel. For a moment, out of the corner of his eye, Tyrosus glimpsed the shape of a familiar man standing illuminated in one of the beams of light that streamed in from the cathedral’s ceiling, but when he turned his head the apparition had disappeared.

“Alexandros?” Tyrosus asked aloud, rising to his feet and striding over to the place the spirit had stood. There was no sign that the fallen Highlord had ever been there, but Tyrosus still did a cursory search, turning away from the altar to look back towards the pews, and spotting a dark object resting under the shadow of the first row of seats, near to where the shadow stain marked the aisle runner. 

“Maxwell?” Liadrin followed him, brow furrowing, “What are you doing?” 

“I thought I saw…” Tyrosus began, crouching to retrieve the object, and then stopping when he realized what it was.

Maxwell Tyrosus had known Darion Mograine since he was a child; could still remember the first Candlemass when all the disparate branches of their extended family had descended upon Alexandros’ home and the main seat of House Mograine--a fine but modest barony in Tirisfal--a few years after Elena’s death in the unspoken declaration that they’d let him alone to mourn for long enough. Darion had been a sickly thing, thin and pale, his fine toddler’s hair still turning from blond to the trademark red their clan was known for. Alexandros had utterly refused to allow anyone else to hold him, despite the trouble his bad arm gave him when Darion started to fuss. He’d stayed near Alexandros to speak, for all that they rarely saw each other, and Tyrosus could remember when he’d first seen Darion’s face; still the smooth and generic features of a toddler, but eyes the same deep and striking brown as his father’s. It had been less than a moment, a curious child turning to look at a stranger before burying his face in Alexandros’ shoulder once again, but Tyrosus had carried the memory with him through the years. Every time they got word that young Darion had caught another cough or fever, to when he’d heard that Alexandros had grown desperate enough to see the boy healthy and strong he was going to start teaching him the basics of swordplay despite being much too young for it, Maxwell would see that frail child’s face in his mind’s eye. 

In the years that had followed, through the plague, the coming of the Scourge, Alexandros’ death, and the schism of the crusades, Tyrosus had lost track of Darion--unsurprising, as they were only distant cousins--until Darion had arrived at the Argent Dawn’s camp, not merely a child, but a boy on the cusp of manhood. Tyrosus’ first impression of Darion, taken more than a decade before, still held some truth to it. The boy was quiet and thoughtful, yet prone to brooding and quick-tempered, and full of grief at the loss of his father; but there was something about him that struck Tyrosus, a self-possession that seemed at once both tenuous and unshakeable. By the time Darion had left the Argent Dawn to strike at Naxxramas in hopes that Alexandros could be saved, he had seemed destined for some yet-undiscovered greatness.

Maxwell had scoured the field of battle after the Scourge retreated from their attack on Light’s Hope; as soon as he had shaken off concerned healers and given cursory orders, he’d made for the place he’d thought he’d seen Darion fall, nearly blinded by the Light as he tried to keep his eyes on Darion’s body, but there was nothing to be found. Tirion Fordring, as much a sight for sore eyes as anything could have been, had met him on the field; crouched down over a darkened patch of ground--the stain of shadow magic strong enough to endure despite the consecration of the grounds around the chapel--and shaking his head in regret before Tyrosus could even ask what he’d found. 

As they stood, nearly shoulder to shoulder before the place Darion had died, Tyrosus had struggled with his faith; the notion that such a powerful and willing sacrifice could have been rewarded with such a miracle, but still be allowed to fall into the hands of the Scourge seeming too cruel for the Light to allow. He had reached out to Tirion as tears began to gather in the other man’s eyes, unsure of anything that could be said when Darion’s recounting of his discovery of Tirion Fordring--given mere hours before, more as a request to Tyrosus that the Argent Dawn send aid to the older paladin than any in-depth discussion--had painted a picture of a brief but profound meeting. 

“Maxwell,” Tirion had acknowledged him, reaching out to clasp him on the shoulder in turn even as tears spilled quietly down his cheeks, before turning back to the stain of darkness that was the only sign of Darion’s passing.

“Tirion,” Tyrosus returned, glancing at the sinking sun on the horizon and the ragged ghouls at the edge of the battlefield, obviously stragglers from the Scourge's main force who’d been too far from Light’s Hope to be destroyed. The dusk was enhanced by the ash that still drifted gently from the sky, and for a moment the only thought Tyrosus could hold onto was a split-second revelation,  _ Ash Bringer _ , before he managed to gather himself. “It will be night soon, and I need to call for the funeral pyres, come inside Brother.” 

Tirion shook his head, weeping openly and staring out across the battlefield unseeing, “I killed that boy, Maxwell,” he said, voice rough with emotion, “He came to me for advice, the  _ Light _ ,” Tirion’s voice rose and broke, “sent him to me for advice, and all I did was get him killed.” 

“He made a choice, Tirion,” Tyrosus said, “whatever you might have said doesn’t take away his own ability to choose.”

“I saw him,” Tirion continued, “At the last moment I saw him, he looked at me and I could read his last words to me on his lips,” his voice broke again, “he said  _ I understand now _ , Maxwell, and then threw himself on that cursed blade.” 

Tyrosus reached out to clasp Tirion’s shoulder again, steadying the other man through his grief.

“And now they’ve taken him,” Tirion let out a long breath, turning to look at Tyrosus, “I failed him, just as I failed Taelan when he needed me most.” 

“I feel your grief and share it,” Tyrosus said, “but there is still a chance we can get him back and we have to think of that.” 

Tirion wiped his eyes and straightened, something quiet and serene seeming to pass over him as he glanced over at the shadowed place where Darion had given his life, “You’re right, old friend,” Tirion reached out to put a hand on each of Tyrosus’ shoulders, “we must have faith, and if Darion cannot be saved we will give his soul its final peace.” 

The echo of memory tangled with countless others: Tirion’s joy after the second battle for Light’s Hope; the Argent Crusade’s daunting battle across Northrend; Darion’s half-hearted grumbling as Tirion led him across the Argent Tournament grounds; the two Highlords standing together as the doors to Icecrown Citadel were put to the Argent Crusade’s battering ram, both of them grim and determined. 

“Maxwell!” Liadrin’s voice jolted Tyrosus out of his reverie.

“My apologies, Liadrin,” he said, “but things may be worse than we imagined.”

“Why?” Liadrin asked, squaring her shoulders but glancing curiously at the object held half-concealed in Tyrosus’ hands.

Tyrosus glanced at the dark stain of shadow magic that had left its mark on the ground, memories of the past catching in his mind for another long moment before he turned fully towards the Blood Knight Matriarch.

“Because I am afraid that Darion Mograine has met his final death,” Tyrosus said, revealing the object he’d found under the pew: the hilt of a runeblade, recognizable as the one Darion had favored, the blade itself broken off a few inches below the crossguard. 

Liadrin stared at the broken blade, disbelief painting her features. She reached out hesitantly towards the hilt, but stopped and pulled her hand back before she touched it. “What should we do if this is true?”

Tyrosus turned the broken blade in his hands, considering, “Set everything in the Hall of Champions to rights, and ensure that no one knows who specifically in the Ebon Blade attacked.”

“What--” Liadrin started, outrage building in her voice, before Tyrosus cut her off.

“Darion is likely dead, Liadrin,” he said, “regardless of our suspicions, the Highlord of the Ebon Blade lost his life attempting to revive one of the few friends he had left in this world, and shattering the sanctity of Light’s Hope while he was at it.”

Liadrin nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as she realized Tyrosus’ train of thought.

“We cannot afford a war on two fronts,” Tyrosus said, voice low and urgent, “The call for retribution against the Ebon Blade will be fierce, and we don’t even know who Darion’s successor will be.”

“There are only a few possibilities,” Liadrin said, voice dropping in consideration, “and none of them will be reasonable about this.”

Tyrosus nodded, “The Deathlord’s authority was dependent on Darion supporting her as a champion, Thassarian or Koltira Deathweaver are more likely and Koltira’s enmity will be a problem for us either way, and that’s not even accounting for....” Tyrosus paused, sudden unease sweeping through him.

“Maxwell,” Liadrin said quietly, reaching out to put her hand on his arm in a comforting gesture.

“We must account for the fact,” Tyrosus forced the words out in the barest of whispers, “that with Acherus’ Highlord gone, control of the Ebon Blade may fall back into the hands of the Lich King.” 

Liadrin went pale, and her hand dropped from Tyrosus’ arm, “We must gather the council--”

“No,” Tyrosus said softly, turning the broken blade in his hands again, “The full council will only panic, and neither Arator, Aponi, Delas, nor Julia even know....” his voice trailed off, “the secret of Icecrown.”

“Boros doesn’t know either,” Liadrin said.

“Boros is a member of the senior council, as soon as he returns from Netherlight the three of us will discuss this,” Tyrosus said, “but unless the possibility is realized we’ll keep the secret to ourselves as Tirion wished.”

For a long moment he and Liadrin stood facing each other, both of them trying to digest what had happened. 

“I have orders to give, if we are going to keep this quiet,” Liadrin said, Tyrosus nodded, and she turned and strode off down the aisle without another word. 

Tyrosus looked out over the crypt-cathedral, eyes catching on the statues of Alexandros Mograine and Tirion Fordring that stood in places of honor. He thought of Alexandros’ apparition, and for a moment he dearly wished that Tirion’s spirit would visit from whatever place of Light Tyrosus hoped he rested in to give advice. Sighing to himself, and feeling the grief of not only Tirion’s loss but Darion’s as well, Tyrosus made his way to the Hall of Champions’ command center to prepare for what was about to come. It struck him, as the memory of both Highlords continued to linger in his thoughts, that both men had lived so rashly and yet so heroically, in their ways, that dying as they had--Tirion’s strike at the Broken Shore left unsupported by the Horde and Alliance’s continual bickering, and Darion’s grief, for Tyrosus couldn’t think of another reason he would attempt to visit undeath on such a soul as Tirion’s, overwhelming his reason--seemed wrong and was discomfiting to consider with the Legion’s threat looming over Azeroth. 

When the Silver Hand’s forces had returned from their defence of the Netherlight Temple--with the grateful blessings of Prophet Velen still glowing around them, and a Light-touched being with a tale of Turalyon and Alleria who wished to swear itself to their service--most of what had transpired in the Hall of Champions had already been set to rights. 

Tyrosus waited in his office--not in the Hall of Champions itself, but a building that had been constructed to serve as an administration center for the garrison at Light’s Hope when the Argent Crusade had settled in strength at the chapel--for both Liadrin and Boros to arrive. News that there had been victory at Netherlight and the Deadlord Balnazzar had been slain had bolstered the morale of the Silver Hand, but returning to find damage and desecration had been visited and attempted upon the chapel was a sobering counterpoint. Just as Tyrosus had predicted, the news that an errant group of Death Knights had attempted to raise Highlord Fordring was being met with outrage and calls for justice to be done to the Ebon Blade. What Tyrosus had not expected, however, was how universal the antipathy for the Ebon Blade had become. 

Ever since the Broken Shore, Maxwell Tyrosus had been fulfilling all of his own duties as well as those inherited from Tirion. Passing the Ashbringer on to a new wielder had ensured that the Silver Hand had the weapons with which to strike against the Legion, but the business of leading the Silver Hand could not be so easily delegated. The Argent Council had been meant to alleviate some of the burden of leadership and provide coordination between the allied orders of the Argent Crusade: himself, the Argent Highlord; Tirion, the Ashen Highlord; and Darion, the Ebon Highlord. Now that the Silver Hand had unified paladin orders from across Azeroth, the expanded Silver Council had been formed to fulfill the same role, but as capable as the newly-chosen Ashbringer was, they were not a leader of Tirion’s caliber and could not perform all the duties he had undertaken. 

First and foremost in his style of leadership, Tirion Fordring had been personable. There was little he had not known about the morale and mood of the Argent Crusade, and while Tyrosus had contented himself with ensuring that the administration and planning for their long campaign in Northrend was handled as efficiently as possible, Tirion had kept a deft and gracious touch on the crusade’s figurative pulse. 

It was startling, then, for Tyrosus to have quickly arranged interviews with the guards that had been on duty during the Ebon Blade’s attack and hear such uniform distaste be expressed by all of them. That the Deathlord had been stopped at the gate and given warning, when Acherus had stood as the Argent Crusade’s ally since the second battle for Light’s Hope, was made even more outré when most of the guards expressed the belief that the Ebon Blade was considered entirely unwelcome at Light’s Hope. 

When Liadrin and Boros finally arrived, Tyrosus was sitting at his desk and contemplating the broken runeblade he’d found in the Hall of Champions. 

The Draenei Vindicator’s reaction to news of the Ebon Blade’s attack had been explosive, and even in the confines of Tyrosus’ office he paced frustratedly before taking the chair offered to him. 

“Lady Liadrin, Vindicator Boros” Tyrosus greeted, “as the senior council of the Silver Hand, we have a serious and delicate issue to discuss.” 

Boros sat forward in his seat, hooves scraping the stone floor and heavy armour clanking as he gestured, “An outrage to the sanctity of the Light,” Boros said forcefully, “we must demand justice immediately.”

“As much as I agree,” Liadrin said, mouth shaping into a gentle moue of displeasure at Boros’ nearly theatrical gesticulating, “There is more to this issue than simply avenging ourselves on the Ebon Blade.” 

Tyrosus nodded, “Lady Liadrin is right, we have cause to believe Highlord Darion Mograine is dead, and must proceed cautiously until we know to whom leadership of the Ebon Blade will fall.” 

Boros made a frustrated noise, “The coming of the Legion and their attacks has stoked the fires of wrath in my heart,” he said, “watching my brethren die on the Exodar, and now to return from a victory to find more Brothers and Sisters of this order dead at the hands of abominations. I know the wisdom of temperance, Lord Tyrosus, but to trespass against the tomb of Highlord Fordring, who the Prophet Velen spoke of as a paragon of the Light, is too much.” 

Tyrosus sat back in his chair and sighed, “If you would care to note, Vindicator, the Prophet Velen and Highlord Fordring also disagreed extensively in their interpretations of the Light’s doctrine, regardless of their esteem for each other.” 

Liadrin turned slightly in her chair so Boros wouldn’t see the amused smile that insinuated itself onto her face, while Boros gestured dismissively, “Regardless, an attempt was made on his very soul, Highlord Fordring would have been subjected to a purgatory of existence because of whatever  _ entitlement _ ,” Boros over-pronounced the word in scorn, “this Highlord Mograine presumed to have.”

“Believe me, Boros,” Tyrosus said, gaze dropping to the broken runeblade on his desk, “I wish I knew what had driven Darion to this,” he sighed again, “I should have realized he was sinking too far into grief to think clearly when he didn’t appear at Tirion’s funeral…”

“As rightly he should not have,” Boros said decisively.

Tyrosus frowned, brow creasing as he looked at Boros, “Vindicator, I realize it was irregular of me to ask you to handle the arrangements for Tirion’s funeral but my duties were such that I could hardly do so myself in a timely manner,” Tyrosus spoke slowly, and in a more formal manner than usual, trying to organize his thoughts as an ugly suspicion arose in his mind, “was there any indication of why Highlord Mograine did not attend?”

Boros nodded, crossing his arms over his broad chest and settling in his seat, “The Highlord of the Ebon Blade,” he said, “was not invited.”

Tyrosus and Liadrin shared a stunned glance.

“Why--,” Tyrosus managed to say, “Why was Darion Mograine, of all people, not invited to Tirion Fordring’s funeral.”

Boros turned to look at Liadrin, and then back at Tyrosus, frowning slightly as he did so, “I have heard the Ebon Blade were a good ally during the campaign in Northrend, but they are  _ man’ari _ ,” the Draenei word rolled on Boros’ tongue with a strange heaviness.

“I thought man’ari was the name for the fel-corrupted Eredar,” Liadrin said, her pronunciation of the word as perfect as Boros’.

“This is a misconception,” Boros said, “ _ man’ari _ is not a name for anything, in your language it translates to  _ unnatural beings _ , but that is too small.  _ Man’ari _ is something that is,” he paused, searching for a phrase that would convey the entirety of the word’s meaning, “something that is hideously and fundamentally  _ wrong _ . Undeath is such a thing, fel corruption another.  _ Man’ari _ are anathema to the Light, and must not be allowed in places the Light dwells.” 

“The Ebon Blade,” Tyrosus said slowly, attempting to gather his thoughts after this revelation, “and Darion Mograine especially, had every right to pay their respects to Tirion Fordring.”

“I understand their alliance meant much,” Boros said again, “but what do you mean by this? Who is Darion Mograine that you would forgive him the sacrilege that was attempted and say he had a right to visit this holy place?” 

Liadrin sat back in her chair, shaking her head slowly as she came to a realization, “Vindicator Boros, I mean absolutely no disrespect to you by saying this, but you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Boros opened his mouth to reply, but Liadrin cut him off, “The Draenei had not even arrived on Azeroth when the events were taking place, and after years of the Triumvirate of the Hand remaining close to the Exodar, I’m sure there was very little chance to learn of them,” she said, “even I didn’t hear the full story until late into the campaign in Northrend.”

Boros’ insulted expression turned to confusion, and he looked towards Tyrosus, “What story is this?”

Tyrosus struggled with his composure for a long moment, himself having never realized that there might be some paladins unaware of the history between Tirion Fordring and Darion Mograine, or indeed, between Darion Mograine and Light’s Hope Chapel. It was difficult to consider how to summarize everything that had happened over the years after Lordaeron’s fall and beyond. 

“You know that the Ashbringer was originally wielded by Highlord Alexandros Mograine?,” Tyrosus asked.

“Yes,” Boros replied, leaning towards Tyrosus.

“What has perhaps been lost from the legend as time has passed is that, due to the corrupting influence of the Dreadlord Balnazzar, Alexandros was murdered by his eldest son, Renault,” Tyrosus said, trying to summarize the events that had led to the Silver Hand’s original schism, and so much pain and strife, “by slaying Alexandros with the Ashbringer, the blade was corrupted, and Alexandros himself was eventually raised by the Scourge to become the Fourth Horseman, a terrible champion of Naxxramas.” 

“A tragedy, and proof of the Legion’s insidious nature,” Boros said, “but--”

Liadrin cut him off, “Please, Vindicator, allow Lord Tyrosus to finish.”

Boros settled further, “My apologies.”

Tyrosus continued, “After a time, Alexandros’ younger son, Darion, sought to save his father, and led a small group into Naxxramas to search for him,” Tyrosus sighed, “their mission failed, and instead of rescuing Alexandros, Darion laid him to rest and retrieved the corrupted Ashbringer, beginning a quest to purify the blade. He received a vision from the Light that led him to Tirion Fordring, who was living in exile, and by their meeting Darion eventually realized a way to free Alexandros’ soul from where it was trapped in the Ashbringer, while Tirion was motivated to leave his exile and join the Argent Dawn, however…” Tyrosus paused, leaning forward to put his elbows on his desk and steeple his fingers, “during the first battle to defend Light’s Hope, Darion was driven to sacrifice his life; freeing Alexandros’ soul, awakening the wrath of the thousand heroes of the Light interred beneath the chapel to destroy the Scourge army, and laying a powerful consecration on the chapel that endures to this day.”

Boros frowned thoughtfully, “Often have I wondered which wielder of the Light in your Argent Dawn’s past was great enough to place such a blessing upon these grounds,” he said, “I did not know that it had come at such a price.”

“Even without knowing this, surely the fact that the Ebon Blade was our staunchest ally in  Northrend and that Highlord Fordring’s more egregious decisions to disguise himself and venture alone into Scourge strongholds would have been the cause of his death if Highlord Mograine hadn’t rescued him are enough to have merited some consideration?” Liadrin asked. 

“It is enough,” Boros said, “for time out of mind, it has been impressed upon each initiate Vindicator that all that can be done for a  _ man’ari _ is to end their life of unnatural suffering with the Light’s swift mercy. In the past, during our long flight, to try and reach out to those loved ones who had fallen was to court disaster; they could never be returned to the Light, and often we would be forced to flee again because some poor soul had held too closely the hope that their love was strong enough or their will great enough to cleanse the corruption,” the Vindicator lowered his head, “Azeroth is in its own way a world of miracles to us, that sometimes there is enough love in one soul to turn back the darkness, that sometimes there is enough Light to drive out the shadow.”

Boros shook his head and straightened, “Lord Tyrosus, I must confess I have committed a grave error….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i really do have a vague headcanon that all the redheads in lordaeron are relatives. it amuses me. 
> 
> less yelling and more sad memories bc tyrosus does as he pleases. i feel sort of sorry for boros at the end there though. i may have given the impression in earlier comments that i dislike the draenei? this isnt true, i just feel frustrated with the very black-and-white way they deal with things as a culture, and also how they mistreat the broken (ilu nobundo)


	18. The Three Lich Kings Pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not super happy with where this ended, but getting it there at all was like pulling teeth, so have a lot of exposition on the way to (more) exposition...and hopefully some action...someday...

When the only true decision the Ebon Blade was capable of making was, at its most basic, ‘we wait’, the meeting at the command table was much shorter than it seemed it ought to have been. Their attack on Light’s Hope had been less than a day before, but an eternity seemed to have elapsed on Acherus; time dragging as tension and uncertainty had run unchecked throughout the necropolis. The sense that such a long time had passed was made even more jarring as the lack of business that needed attention illustrated just how little time had passed at all. A sense of unease that gave way to raw discomfort when at last the only pressing issue was that the Lich King was present on Acherus, and wanted an audience. 

The platform on the roof of the necropolis was intended as an open space for various rituals, as well as maintenance of the obelisks that supported several functions of the enchantments that allowed Acherus to fly. As such, access to it was restricted, and the transporter to reach it was not among the ones used to navigate between Acherus’ main floors but rather sequestered to a corner in the depths of Amal’thazad’s domain. 

Darion had been surprised by how heartfelt the lich’s sentiments were when he saw that Darion was returned. The nature of a lich’s emotions being repressed beyond the extremes as part of the process that created them and turned them into the Scourge’s preeminent spellcasters. The unique nature of Kel’thuzad’s resurrection and rise to lichdom had left the archlich with the full range of emotions he’d had in life, but the majority of the Scourge’s liches lived as disconnected and tranquil outsiders from most of the eddy and flow of feeling. 

The Deathlord’s reaction to his waking was something Darion had wanted write off as the discomfort of having witnessed his death and resurrection first hand, and her own obvious feelings of guilt over the ordeal. Thassarian and Koltira had been unruffled as usual, and Koltira had been nearly blithe in his assessment of Darion’s state when they’d first arrived; but there had been a certain care they’d taken with him that Darion had attributed to their long history together, the closest thing to true friendships that he had. It was strange, then, to realize the depths of the relief and shock that had been the undercurrent of every interaction he’d had with his Knights since he’d returned. From the stunned Knights who’d stopped when he’d emerged onto Acherus’ main balcony to the unusual deference from Siouxsie the Banshee--never afraid to speak her mind or register her usual aggravation with anyone--and the almost fragile mien that took Lady Alistra when she stopped to speak with him after their command meeting. Thorval’s gruff demand that Darion report promptly to his laboratory as soon as was possible accompanied by a nearly shaken look--as though Darion might disappear when let out of sight--before he finally left the command chamber. 

In all the time he had led them, and with all the danger of the campaigns they had fought, Darion had never considered how his death might affect the Ebon Blade. It had never been something to think about, the vague conclusion that had somehow insinuated itself into his subconscious being that if he ever fell the Ebon Blade would have fallen with him. The expectation that all of Acherus would have fought to their very ends before he himself succumbed was disturbing not just because of the irrationality of it, but because of the lingering hallmarks of the Scourge’s way of thinking that was so obvious in the thought. That one’s subordinates would be thrown into the breach endlessly until a victory was achieved or their numbers exhausted was a common tactic for Scourge commanders that Darion had recognized even before he had been freed from the Lich King’s control. Death Knights were shock troops at their core, and while he had used what were innovative tactics for the Scourge when he had not simply thrown his Knights at problems until his target was overwhelmed with numbers, the thought had somehow remained after all these years that his own death would be a finale and not a prelude to the Ebon Blade’s destruction. And it was obvious that despite the years and planning for nearly any situation of disaster or defeat, his Knights had also shared in this flawed belief. 

Darion felt uncomfortable acknowledging the sheer relief he was greeted with at every turn, recognizing where the Ebon Blade was still locked to the Scourge’s design even after freeing themselves, and all of their work to form their own identity as an order and brotherhood. It touched something in him though, that unlike in the Scourge he would not simply be replaced and pass unremembered, to be used only as a lesson to the next Highlord to ascend to his position--and who would have likely achieved that place by engineering his death, as had been so common in the schemes of advancement and ambition within the ranks of the Scourge capable of such things--but that he would mourned. He would be missed. He would be remembered. 

These revelations were a knot in Darion’s chest as he stepped through the transporter and emerged on Acherus’ roof. The central platform was a small circle of empty space surrounded by the towering obelisks that conducted and housed components of the enchantments enabling Acherus’ flight, before the roof sloped out and away to merge with Acherus’ walls. The crenellations on the lower roof full of hiding places for gargoyles to roost barely in sight through the thick fog that hung around the floating necropolis. The frigid air that gusted from Acherus driven by the layers of complex enchantments and rituals that had been imbued into the very stone as it was constructed, meeting the warm and damp sea air to build into a bank of thick fog that never dissipated; concealing the shape and exact position of the necropolis from prying eyes. 

Darion had witnessed Acherus’ creation, and assisted Kel’thuzad in overseeing the efforts of building what was intended to become the Scourge’s most powerful necropolis. Obrahiim’s designs had been a thing of marvel, fitting together every lesson that had been learned in Naxxramas’ creation and the assaults it had endured with even more formidable defences and the baroque aesthetic adopted by the Scourge as one small tribute to the Nerubian civilization that had resisted but ultimately been decimated in the War of the Spider. The memory was strangely bittersweet, overshadowed by the knowledge that his devotion to the Scourge had not been fully his own; the pride that he’d felt assuming command of Acherus for the first time had been felt in service of the power that had destroyed his life. 

Looking across the rooftop and seeing Bolvar silhouetted through the drifting mists rising across the frigid stone of Acherus, Darion wondered idly what had become of Obrahiim. The skeleton had been the Scourge’s master architect, devoted to the secret knowledge that the Cult of the Damned had promised and driven by his thirst to learn of the forbidden. The Lich King’s will had seemed to have only an ephemeral hold on him, and news that he had disappeared in search of greater mysteries had been unsurprising.

Bolvar Fordragon had never been someone Darion had known in life. Even during the Northrend campaign he had only met the Highlord of Stormwind in passing, each of them busy with their duties. Bolvar’s devotion to the Wrynns and the Alliance and Darion’s own reluctance to involve himself overmuch with anyone aside from Tirion Fordring and the Argent Crusade had ensured their paths crossed only rarely. 

Being truly introduced to each other after Arthas’ fall, when Bolvar had imprisoned himself within the Frozen Throne as he named himself Jailor of the Damned, was as inauspicious a beginning as could be imagined. The Ebon Blade had been wary and unsure how to proceed, and while Bolvar had been famously just and honorable the possibility that the nature of his assumption of the mantle of Lich King had altered him in some way was not one the Ebon Blade had been able to dismiss out of hand. Caution had reigned in every contact between the newly-installed Lich King and the Ebon Blade. 

The slow build of their detente and Bolvar’s own resigned devotion to his unending duty was what had eventually convinced Darion that the Lich King’s intentions were genuine, and they had begun to collaborate to eradicate the independent Scourge presences and the small pockets of the Cult of the Damned that continued to operate across the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor. Those Scourge who could not be reached by Bolvar and driven north to the prison that Icecrown Citadel was fast becoming were slain, and likewise those cultists who would not ally themselves with the new Lich King or devote themselves to the service of the Ebon Blade. Over the years their efforts had been successful, and the Scourge was contained within the borders of Icecrown and the Lich King’s iron control. 

It was a desolate place to visit: the grounds of the Argent Tournament devoid of the tents and banners that had made it so lively as the Argent Crusade decamped from Northrend; the vastness of the glacier spreading in every direction; the remains of Ymirheim and the few Vrykul who still lived there in their strange worship of the Lich King; the plains of the valleys of lost hope and fallen heros still filled with wandering Scourge, flowing into and out of the citadel on Bolvar’s command as they refortified the gates to seal themselves off from the rest of Azeroth. The Ebon Blade had kept their foothold in the Shadow Vault, but it was a token garrison of those few Knights who did not mind the duty of watching over Icecrown. The citadel itself was slowly beginning to fall into disrepair; Bolvar shunning the company of the few cultists who’d crawled from the wreckage to offer their renewed service to the Lich King, and many of those with specialized knowledge of the Scourge fortress having been slain in the siege. He reigned in silent vigil that Darion almost admired, resolute that the Scourge would not be free to roam the world, even the Val’kyr who remained being kept at a distance. 

But it was deeply lonely, and the Ebon Blade’s concern that Bolvar Fordragon might try to bring them once more under control began to fade as they instead considered the growing likelihood that the Lich King would turn not out of the hate that had guided Ner’zhul or the madness that drove Arthas, but the isolation that governed the Lich King’s existence in deep secrecy. 

The irony that a closer relationship between the Lich King and the Ebon Blade had been the result of the Ebon Blade’s worry was not lost on Darion, but Bolvar had seemed if not grateful then cautiously invested in a more cordial relationship. 

The Ebon Blade’s freedom to move throughout the world was a boon, and while those Knights who wished to second themselves to the factions and allegiances they’d championed in life were welcome to do so--as long as they abided by the stringent laws that governed Acherus, few of them though there were--a greater number of the Ebon Blade were simply mercenaries who drifted and adventured as they pleased. Tasking those Knights with a duty to retrieve an item of interest as they travelled was beyond simplicity, and so Acherus’ goals had turned slowly from destroying the Scourge to understanding the power of the Lich King and unlocking the mysteries of the Frozen Throne

Bolvar had remained resigned to the fact of his ceaseless vigil, even as The Ebon Blade and the few remaining cultists of the Scourge scoured Azeroth and the Outlands for writings and ritual objects for study. Speaking to the Lich King as an equal was strange, but to remain on more formal terms such as Arthas had demanded was discomfiting and Darion refused to allow the notion that the Ebon Blade was once again at the Lich King’s beck and call even though they were allies. It seemed to amuse Bolvar, when they spoke, that while Darion would address him freely as  _ Highlord _ , there were no Death Knights willing to begin untangling the years worth of memory of  _ my King _ being pulled from their mouths whenever they spoke to Arthas to even attempt formal titles. 

Now, Darion strode across Acherus’ roof to where Bolvar waited. There was something about the Bolvar’s silhouette that seemed strange, and as he drew closer Darion realized it was because the Lich King was casting three shadows.


	19. The Three Lich Kings Pt.2 (or: Unholy Alliance)

The three shadows cast by the Lich King wavered in the dim evening light that filtered through the thick fog surrounding Acherus; flickers of darkness that played around Bolvar’s feet as Darion stood beside him near the edge of the central platform. For several long moments, Bolvar and Darion stood in silence, both half-turned away from each other to look out over the edge of Acherus’ roof--the edge of the platform they stood on dropping away to the lower slopes of the roof--at the unearthly fel light that emanated from the Tomb of Sargeras and dominated the skies over the Broken Shore. 

“Tell me,” Darion said, breaking the silence and glancing over at Bolvar as a breeze rolled off the ocean and snapped at the ragged remains of cloth and armour that swathed Bolvar’s body, “were these obfuscations truly necessary?” 

Bolvar held his silence, staring out over the ravaged coastline of the Broken Shore--the shapes of sunken ships, both Horde and Alliance, visible in the water below--before turning slowly to face Darion, allowing himself to be silhouetted against the poisonous light that warred with the night sky. “Yes,” Bolvar rasped, the deep and resonant quality of his voice at odds, always, with his ravaged appearance, “for more reasons than you yet understand,” he paused, seeming to take Darion in for the first time and truly study him, “but it is done now, we will tell you what we know.”

“We?” Darion questioned, frowning.

“Yes,” Bolvar said, his voice seeming to strain and echo, “you should be able to see us now,  _ look _ .”

For a moment Darion considered turning on his heel and marching back towards the transporter. Bolvar was an ally, yes, and the power of the Lich King was great enough that such a slight would not be wise, but it was too soon after his resurrection for Darion to consider it any more wise to court strange visions. There was something about the quality of Bolvar’s voice, however, and the shadows flickering around him--still distinct, even after night had fallen, despite there being no lights to cast them--that gave Darion pause. Never before had he noticed the Lich King with three shadows, or any number of shadows not appropriate to what physical form the Lich King’s power was hosted by; almost unbidden, the visions that had come to him earlier played at the edges of Darion’s memory.

His conviction that fate had guided him to this point was enough for Darion to come to the conclusion that there were no coincidences: in his visions all three Lich Kings had spoken to him, and now the Lich King spoke to him again. 

Darion tentatively reached for the power his third resurrection and ascension as Fourth Horseman had granted him. It was still as endlessly familiar as it had been when it had revealed itself to him, and as soon as he sought it he felt the same bone-deep recognition: the hilt of a ritual knife jumping to his hand; the whisper of shadow pouring from the wounds death and rebirth had carved into his very soul, opening him to powers that could only cross into the world of the living through such means. It was power that  _ wanted _ to be used by its host, and shaped itself eagerly to Darion’s will.

For a moment the world seemed to still, the chilling breeze that rolled off the ocean easing into a lull before being overtaken by the colder and more powerful spectral winds of the shadowlands--gusting strongly enough to tug at Darion’s limbs and drag at his braided hair--as the shadows that played around Bolvar flickered and then shifted, gaining depth and form until the shades of Arthas Menethil and Ner’zhul materialized on either side of him. 

“The power of the Lich King does not relinquish the souls of its hosts,” Bolvar said, his voice softer somehow, free of the most obvious edge of resonance that was a hallmark of the Lich King. It was almost how his voice had sounded in life, Darion realized, damaged and roughened by his injuries but not the nearly unrecognizable grate of the Lich King’s voice. “We have waited, knowing the Legion would come, but unable to do more to than gather our strength until it arrived.”

Darion looked between the three, studying each of of them: Ner’zhul’s spirit appearing as the old shaman must have looked before he’d been shaped into the first Lich King rather than his younger self from the alternate Draenor; Arthas, casting a knowing smile in Darion’s direction as he tried to gather his thoughts, not the frozen demigod he’d been at Icecrown’s pinnacle but the more distressingly familiar man of flesh and blood--greyed before his time, and edged with cold though he might be--that Darion had loved and been loyal to in the Scourge; Bolvar, posture stiff with pain as he kept his spine rigid despite the wounds that had at once saved him from the plague and damned him to his fate, remaining neutral despite the enormity of what he had revealed. 

“We had a plan once,” Arthas’ shade said, and his voice too was how it had been before the harsh echo of the Lich King had swallowed it, “Ner’zhul and I had a plan,” he glanced over at the orc, who remained as still and silent as he’d been when the shades had taken form.

“A poor plan,” Bolvar interjected, in the well-worn tones of an argument that had been repeated several times, “a wasteful, cruel plan that led to your downfall.”

“The best weapon against the Legion is the Scourge,” Arthas’ shade said passionately, “undead warriors, able to fight without fatigue, enough to keep up with the endless onslaught of demons unleashed by the Legion’s invasions.”

The hold Arthas’ shade had upon the world of the living was enough for him to speak and move as he had in life. The same fullness of expression in every gesture that Darion recalls, in a sudden flash of deja vu, as the same intensity that had characterized Arthas as he dictated his plans to his generals.

“We could have done it,” Arthas said, “unified Azeroth under the Scourge, been ready and waiting when the Legion came, before you defied me--” he says, turning to pin Darion with a glare.

“You betrayed me,” Darion hisses back at him, voice rising, “I was your Highlord and you couldn’t be bothered to tell me any of this before you sent me to die?”

“I would have raised you again,” Arthas says, momentarily taken aback by Darion’s interruption, “I would have restored you to my side as Fourth Horseman; we would have been unstoppable,” he pauses, “but it needed to be your hand that struck down Tirion Fordring.”

“Why?” Darion asked, angrily.

“He was the last true connection you had to the living, your lingering attachment held you back--”

Darion cut Arthas off again, “My lingering attachment?” he snarled, incredulous, “So did my attachment to  _ you _ just not mean anything?” 

“ _ Enough _ ,” spoke thunder, Ner’zhul’s voice more a physical thing than simple words. His shade was the oldest, the most tired, and yet the most vitally intertwined with the power of the Lich King. The tortures that had sundered his spirit and forged him into the Lich King had both shattered his mind and sharpened it to a greater and more terrible clarity. When he spoke again, the effort of maintaining the control that made his shade tangible was obvious in his voice; rasps and echoes following his words. 

“This is unimportant,” Ner’zhul seemed to exhale rage with each word, fury so exquisitely leashed and directed that no one dared interrupt, the hatred that had driven the Scourge since its creation contained entirely within the force of one spirit. “Gul’dan is here. And his master.” 

More than just fury, Ner’zhul’s words carried the weight of profound psychic impression.

_ The dawning horror of being deceived; the grief as Rulkan’s beloved spirit reviled him; anger and impotence as he was betrayed by Gul’dan and powerless to stop his machinations; fear and terror and pain, breaking under Kil’jaeden’s tortures; and then, at last, the slow return of clarity despite the grotesque form his powers and spirit had been moulded into, and more, the all-consuming need for vengeance. _

Ner’zhul’s spirit wavered as the onslaught of memory and emotion crashed over all of their senses, flickering in and out of focus until finally, with tremendous effort of will, he brought himself back under control.

The tension in Bolvar’s posture and the unearthly stillness as Arthas’ shade seemed to fade into monochrome at Ner’zhul’s lapse told Darion that they felt the wrath and agony that sustained Ner’zhul’s spirit even more strongly than he did, through the strange connections that bound them.

“The Legion,” Ner’zhul growled, words driving into Darion’s skull, “is all that matters.”

Ner’zhul’s spirit flickered again, a sharp stab of  _ rage _ washing between the bonds tangled between the three Lich Kings and spilling over to the thread that tied Darion to them, however loosely, before the first Lich King was able to gather himself to continue.

“Gul’dan must be destroyed,” Ner’zhul flickers only for a moment, iron will holding his broken spirit to the simple task he’d fixated on, “leave nothing, not even his soul. Give him no chance to return.” By the time he’s done speaking Ner’zhul’s voice is no longer a voice at all, reverting to the sheer psychic force it had been when he was imprisoned in the Frozen Throne. 

Bolvar didn’t move from where he stood, but Arthas’ shade wavered from monochrome into pearlescent greys; impressionist smears of hue framing his shape before wavering back into focus.

“And what of Illidan Stormrage?” Darion asked, news that the demon hunter’s body had been stolen by Gul’dan having spread far and wide since the Illidari had been freed from the Vault of the Wardens.

Arthas sneered, “I nearly killed him even before I took up the Helm, and now all he is is a corpse in a rock.”

Ner’zhul flickered momentarily, turning towards Darion, “We will deal with him if we must,” he said, “but when Gul’dan falls Kil’jaeden will come--and I will-- _ I will _ \--”

Ner’zhul’s rage overcomes his spirit and he shades into the same indistinct focus that had momentarily taken Arthas’s shade. His anguish blazes through the convoluted links that bind the four of them, and rather than any words or impressions, the sharp vision of Ner’zhul’s unrelenting focus--the fixation that had driven him beyond madness and death--came to the fore of their minds.

_ Rulkan as he’d last seen her. Rulkan in Oshu’gun with the Deceiver, the creature that used her spirit, dying a painful death at her feet. The thought--the wish--the prayer: if I am ever able to truly die and be with her again, that she will see I took vengeance for her. That she will see I have atoned for my sins. That I will be able to beg her forgiveness.  _

The force of the projection seemed to exhaust Ner’zhul’s spirit, and rather than bother to resolidify his spirit as Arthas had, he hung grey and spectral at Bolvar’s side; his message delivered. 

“The Legion has taken from all of us,” Bolvar said at last, into the long silence that had stretched out after Ner’zhul subsided--when they had stood, all of them, and waded through the overwhelming emotion that had accompanied the vision--his voice was even and calm, but carried an undercurrent of regret. He looked to Darion, “and we can only drive them back if we are united. Acherus and Icecrown must be as one again, and you must retake your place as Highlord of the Scourge, not merely the Ebon Blade.” 

Darion remained silent, considering Bolvar’s statement and everything that had been revealed. To simply say the Legion had taken from each of them seemed almost too simplistic: Ner’zhul had lost everything; Arthas had fallen, as Mal’ganis’ taunts pushed him beyond the point of no return; Bolvar’s suffering and solitude as Lich King, unable to reach out to his dearest friend even before Varian was killed by Gul’dan. Darion thought of himself as well, how the dreadlord Balnazzar’s plotting had destroyed his family and sent him on the odyssey that led to his death, and whose attempt to claim the Ashbringer had led to Tirion’s death as well. 

“There are none in Acherus who would willingly submit to your control again,” Darion said, “whatever alliance we make, the Lich King cannot rule as before.”

Bolvar inclined his head in agreement, while Arthas’ shade huffed irritably at his side; Ner’zhul remained as he was, a barely-there spectre hovering in place, but his voice whispered, “ _ No. No more. We… cannot be absolute… again.” _

Darion nodded, exhaling a slow breath as he looked between the three of them, “The Legion must be stopped,” he said, stepping toward Bolvar and offering his hand, “and the Scourge is the weapon that will oppose them.”

There was a sense of victory that rippled through the bonds connecting the three Lich Kings; Arthas and Ner’zhul’s spirits flickering and shifting, almost appearing to be drawn into Bolvar’s shadow, as they disappeared into whatever part of the Lich King’s power bound them.

The Lich King--for he was no longer just Bolvar Fordragon; posture straightening into what Darion recognized as Arthas’ effortless regality, and manner becoming sharp and focused as Ner’zhul’s rage--stepped forward as well, drawing shadows into his hands as he did so to draw forth a blade Darion had never expected to see again. 

Rather than take Darion’s hand in his own, the Lich King turned the hilt of Shadowmourne towards him and offered it instead. 

The blade was just as Darion remembered when it was freshly forged, after the weeks of work he’d spent personally laboring over it at the runeforges of Light’s Hammer, and just as it had been the last time he’d seen it: in the hands of a Champion of the Ashen Verdict who’d died felling Arthas atop Icecrown. It had been a work of incredible delicacy; to reforge Light’s Vengeance--Arthas’ own discarded hammer--into a weapon that would embody the vengeance of all those who had lost their souls to Frostmourne. 

The power that lived in Darion spread out along his outstretched arm until his fingers went numb with it, before reaching beyond his arm for the blade--the shadow resonating within it amplified by the primordial saronite and shards of the Frozen Throne itself that had been worked into it when Darion had created it--and in response Shadowmourne tore from the Lich King’s hands, the haft of the runeforged axe being pulled into Darion’s waiting hand. 

“Frostmourne lives again,” the Lich King said, voice echoing so strongly it sounded as each of the triad of souls bound to it had spoken together at once, “and her sister blade lives as well--kept safe, until now, and returned to you.”

It was perfect; the runes that Darion had inscribed himself on the axe’s blade lighting as the power he now played host to surged into the blade--binding it to his spirit more closely than any runeblade he’d ever wielded. Darion spun Shadowmourne’s haft between his hands, almost enraptured by the effortlessness of the axe’s weigh, when all at once, he realized that for the first time since he had been parted from it, he no longer missed the oddly-weighted balance of the Ashbringer.

Darion held Shadowmourne tightly, eyes finally returning to the Lich King as he reached out to lay a hand atop Darion’s own on the axe’s haft.

“The blade you forged for vengeance,” the Lich King said, “will serve that purpose again. Go now, call Acherus to readiness. The Scourge will destroy that which created it, and the Burning Legion will know the wrath of those it has damned.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and some [mood music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9QZRjiZh6pQ) for the general feel i had re: darion at the end of this chapter, lol
> 
> i cant think of a witty note bc this was a very difficult scene, but im very happy with it :)


End file.
